


Blame It On The Stars

by Write_like_an_American



Series: In The Beginning [1]
Category: Guardians of the Galaxy (Movies), Guardians of the Galaxy - All Media Types, Marvel, Marvel (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Blood and Gore, Bottom Kraglin, Bottom Yondu, Character Development, Complete, F/M, Fanart, Friends to Lovers, Gen, Includes Art, M/M, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Switching, The promised 'how-they-met' story, Work In Progress, Workplace Relationship, Worldbuilding, Yondu doesn't appear until Chapter 4 jfc, an attempt to write something focussed more on plot than porn, glacially slow moving, pre-Peter Ravagers, updates several times a week because writer has no chill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-08
Updated: 2015-09-29
Packaged: 2018-04-08 07:57:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 39
Words: 98,651
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4296834
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Write_like_an_American/pseuds/Write_like_an_American
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Kraglin thinks being a Ravager will be easy.</p>
<p>Kraglin's an idiot.</p>
<p> </p>
<p> He's got more to contend with than awful food and sweaty leathers; there's the crotchety old captain, her warring first mates, a whole bunch of crewmates more interested in betting on when he'll die than making friends... And that weird blue guy who keeps threatening to kill him with a whistle.   </p>
<p> </p>
<p>But hey. At least it can't get any worse. Right?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> **The Ravagers deserved more development. I also had a burning desire for pre-Peter Yondu/Kraglin - and thus, this monstrosity was born.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **About the rating - any regular readers may be surprised! My summer target was to write an entire fic devoid of porn, where all sex happens off-screen. Because that's a genuine challenge for me. (I know, I'm disgusted at myself too.) So while there'll be plenty of shippiness and so forth, I'm focusing on action and friendship.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Enjoy~**

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin thinks running away from home to become a space pirate is an excellent decision.**

Only thing worse than first night in prison? First night on a Ravager ship.

Kraglin, who has had the misfortune to suffer both, believes himself to be in an optimum position to make this comparison. Alright, so it hadn't been a _bad_ prison – not by the galaxy's standards. It was no Kyln, that was for sure. But it had been dark-lit and starkly decorated, all bare steel walls and humming energy bars, built with intimidation in mind. And it had worked. Because he'd been young and scared and he'd never been caught before, and he hadn't closed his eyes for a week because he was convinced that his bunkmate – a Kree hauled in for mugging – was going to shank him in his sleep. 

It had been, to put it simply, utter hell. After seven days and nights spent jerking himself into sweaty, paranoid wakefulness every time he felt himself nod, Kraglin had been ready to crack. Seeing as if he carried on that way he was going to die of a heart attack the next time someone electrocuted themselves on the cell bars, he decided that he might as well catch a kip before the inevitable. Thus, when the guard belted the order for lights out, he had boldly let his eyes drift shut and bid adieu to the underside of the bed above, never expecting to look upon it again. 

Only he had. The next morning, in fact. 

Kraglin had rolled out of his bunk in time for the breakfast buzzer, narrowly avoiding cracking his knees on the ladder and feeling… well, not quite refreshed, but at least less likely to keel over and start twitching. Kree fella grunted, informed him that he snored, and proceeded to ignore him for the rest of his month-long stint. 

After that experience, Kraglin felt ready to conquer anything. He'd survived lock-up. He could take on the whole fucking galaxy: deepspace worms, mad titans, and all. Space pirates were _nothing_. 

But nothing could have prepared him for this. 

The Ravager's galleon – the _Eclector_ , it's called, whatever that might mean – is an ugly trapezium, patched together with rust, solder, industrial-age masonry and hope. Its floors are spaced at uneven intervals, some sprawling and spacious, some so cramped Kraglin can't walk without hunching his neck. There's only a few lifts, fewer that work with any degree of regularity. Those that are operational clank along their shafts so slowly that you might as well suck it up and climb the ladders anyway. The lights always verge on flickering, and the grills over the vent chutes have a worrying tendency to creak when you put your weight on them. 

Now, Kraglin's been on a spaceship before. Of course he has. It ain't like he's _planetbound_ or nothing – heck, the very insinuation would make him bristle. He's just never felt quite so unconfident in a spaceship's ability to stay in space. 

He knows, logically, it ain't likely to fall out. Not unless someone does something really stupid and makes gravity invert galaxy-wide again. Yet he still can't halt that jarring, empty feeling, that hollow pit in his stomach which gapes open as he presses his palm on the convex glass porthole between him and the star-spangled abyss. 

He's alone. 

Again, this is nothing new. Kraglin can handle himself. When you run with a Hraxian street gang you learn early on that it's wisest not to get attached. But he's never faced his solitude before. He's never had it laid out before him, so simply and clearly arranged. 

It'd been a long and hectic flight from Hrax, peppered with gunfire and smoke and panic and the beeping of his failing life-support system. Heck, Kraglin hadn't had time to consider what it meant, leaving everything he'd ever known. Now that he's got the chance to stand still and rest a while, to stop running as the universe clatters on around him, it's finally started to sink in just how alone he really is. 

"Gorgeous, ain't it?" 

Kraglin whips around, embarrassed at being caught mooning after a home planet a thousand lightyears behind. He sees a dark-skinned person about half his height and twice his breadth, gender uncertain, swaddled in a patchwork leather coat that looks like it's been passed through more Ravagers than they have piercings. Which is a lot. Kraglin assesses the hand held out to him. It's wrapped in a dirty bandage, and smells faintly of infection. He takes it, tentative, and metal-studded fingers encircle his wrist. 

"Isla," the person says. Gives his forearm a squeeze – the hoop on the underside of their knuckle digs – and quirks their mouth in satisfaction. "You're Hraxian." 

Kraglin blinks. "You could tell that from touching my hand?" 

Isla laughs. It almost sounds friendly. It would sound moreso, if they were looking at him rather than the passing nebula; as it is, Kraglin can't help but feel like an obstacle, and relocates to clear Isla's view. "I wish. It were the teeth that gave it away. That, and Thrabba mentioned he'd recruited one of ya on the last station." They glance at Kraglin from the corner of a crinkled brown eye. "You got the look of a greenie about ya." 

"Thanks." 

"Not somethin' you should thank me for." Isla breathes mist onto the glass. "Word of advice – stop daydreaming by the windows. Home's out there, somewhere, but it ain't never coming back. Not for me, and not for you neither. Sooner you learn that, the longer you'll last." 

Kraglin decides not to point out that they're hardly following their own advice. They're speaking to him - of their own free will! And it's not all snarls and insults! That puts them above ninety percent of the Ravagers he's met so far. "Where're you from then?" he asks instead, figuring small-talk's the best bet in lieu of more concrete subject matter. 

He's wrong. 

His words earn him a stiffening of the alien's shoulders. This time, the look that's leveled at him isn't half so light and teasing. "And don't go poking your nose where it don't belong. Christ, kid, don't you know nothing?" 

Shit. He's pissed off the space pirate. The _experienced_ space pirate, he should say, seeing as technically now he's a space pirate too. Kraglin balks, fist balling in preparation for a fight – but the punch never comes. Isla pushes off the glass. Their expression shifts to pleased so smoothly that the previous anger must have been a figment of his imagination. Nerves, or something. He's still finding his spacelegs, after all. But nevertheless, Kraglin can't shake the niggle that if he's offended them he's liable to regret it. 

"Alright," they say, rubbing their hands. The piercings between their fingers scrape like sandpaper. The bandage peels up; Kraglin catches a glimpse of flesh swollen in a tight pucker around a flaking stud. "I got what I came for. My money's on a week." 

"A week?" Kraglin wishes his bewilderment wasn't written so obviously on his face, as Isla's smile turns vicious. 

"Or p'raps twenty four hours." They give him a hearty pat on the shoulder – their stringy cuffs slap like cat o'nines. "Especially with the cabin I'm assigning ya to. Thanks in advance, kid – you've won me a whole week's worth crate of moonshine." 

"What're you talkin' about –" But with a second slap and a chuckle, Isla breaks away. They shuffle off, merging into the fluxing shadows until the light that glints from their silver studs and hoops is swallowed. Kraglin stares after them. His mouth works around imaginary words. _Under a week? Twenty four hours? And why shouldn't I ask folks where they're from? Ain't these people never speed-dated before?_

All he can figure for certain is that Isla might've been a tad more important than they'd come across, if they're in charge of sorting sleeping quarters. And that Kraglin's almost definitely made an enemy. Still, he ain't got time to fret. Next shift's in fifteen minutes, down in the ship's throbbing engine pit. He's still got to find his way, although he's fairly confident with the map they've coded into his wristpiece. When that's over, he's only got one more assignation before his first twelve designated duty-hours are up. He can worry about Isla's unspoken threat after that. 

Sparing one last wistful look for the spiraling starscape, Kraglin pulls up his holograph of the ship's interior, orientates himself, and starts to walk. ________________________________________ 

His legs hurt. 

That's the first thing he notices. But the inventory soon adds up. His back hurts too. So do his fingers, from gripping the joystick in the crappy junker craft tight enough to make his joints creak. His arms ache like he's been lashed to a Skrull torture rack. He's already spent the morning hauling stock at the back of the ship, after scouting out that hefty red-coated fella with the metal eye – Thrabba? – in the station bar and selling himself to him as an able-bodied recruit with experience in matters not-quite-legal, willing to do anything and everything to pull his weight, but who really, _really_ couldn't be out on the docks. (For certain reasons. Reasons which involved the gang of armed thugs patrolling each bay with his picture in their bounty-books.) And before _that_ , he'd been crammed into a tiny spherical junkship, the smallest and most unobtrusive craft he could afford. His muscles have atrophied to the shape of the pilot's seat. 

All in all, it's been a busy week. It's alright now though, Kraglin tells himself. All of that's over. He made it. He's gonna be fine. 

He survived the auction-gone-wrong. He went on, against all odds, to survive the kamikaze-run through the checkpoint stockade, and the first wave of the manhunt that the Cartel have put out in his name. Living with a gang of Ravagers can't possibly trump all of that on the leaderboard for the worst time of his life. And it ain't like this situation is permanent or nothing - nope, Kraglin's just here for the short-haul. In again, out again; ready to pop off at a space port and make his own way as soon as there's a dozen-or-so quadrants between him and his pursuers. 

Sufficiently reassured, Kraglin gives his map a quick swivel and follows the flashing beacon that guides him forwards.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **All the pictures scroll from side to side, by the way! Although I, uh, forgot to color this one completely, so...**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin realizes running away from home to become a space pirate may not have been the smartest decision after all.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I adore everyone who reviews. On whatever chapter. Whenever. Feed me your love.**

"Oi. Fresh meat. What's yer name?" 

That's the first thing the overseer asks. He's hefty, whiskered; of a height with Thrabba and certainly wider across the gut. The heat from the engine processors has made his beefy face red, and his beard is matted with sweat. Kraglin, surprised at being singled from the cast of surly laborers, pauses in his efforts to clamp a dribbling fuel valve. 

"Uh. It's, um – " 

The man cuts him off. "Save it. No one gives a shit." Kraglin's lips are a bit slow on the uptake and continue to mouth out the syllables of his name. The overseer sneers like he smells something dirty – which, considering the state of them all, he probably does. Kraglin doubts anyone in the room's seen a shower for a fortnight, himself included. "Now put your fucking back into it," comes the order. "You ain't on no pansy Nova planet no more." 

Now _that_ makes him bristle. 

Nova-governed it might be, but Hrax is far from a pansy place. It ain't _Xandar_ , that's for sure. Kraglin's tempted to practice his clan's traditional spine-ripping technique on this guy, just in case anyone requires solid proof. This isn't the ghettos though. You can't vanish into the throng if you kill someone important (or blast off on the next offworld ship, as the case may be…) 

No – here he's confined. Restricted to four walls, a lot of scrambly corridors that ignore all logic and don't feature anywhere on his map no matter how many angles he rotates it through, and the endless vacuum-void beyond. There's an order to things here. A hierarchy. Kraglin hasn't worked with one of those before – always been iffy of 'em in fact; growing up dirt poor on a Nova planet will do that to you. He's certainly not keen on playing along now. But there's not much in the way of alternative options: it's this or the airlock. 

Forcing a smile, he braces his boots on the sharp metal grills and _heaves_. 

The valve mouth screeches in another nanometer. There's a wheeze as the pressure shifts, then a bubble bursts from the narrowed entrance, splattering Kraglin's leathers with hot fuel. The droplets eat away at the material before fizzling to smoke. When Kraglin looks down it's with trepidation; he expects to find patches of scalded skin. But there's nothing more than a new collection of scars over his jacket's worn hide. 

"Huh," he says. Perhaps he is a little grateful for being pushed into a uniform. Even if it reeks of the last occupant. 

Looming overhead, the overseer huffs – Kraglin assumes it's in approval – and goes to find someone less productive to harass. Kraglin leans his sweating forehead against the wrench. Just briefly. Long enough to inhale the noxious fumes leaking from his pipe; compared to the rest of the room they come as a relief. 

A dozen quadrants between him and his new life? If he doesn't get access to a wash-basin in the next three days, he's cutting it to half, Cartel bounty hunters be damned. 

________________________________________ 

Canteen's a noisy affair, which Kraglin doesn't mind, and a crushing one, which he does. He's packed between two rowdy huddles of Ravagers. Each are wildly gesticulating, and Kraglin has already accrued a bust lip and several bruises to his ribs. The Ravagers don't notice. If they do, they don't care. Kraglin rubs mournfully at his split mouth, and supposes he'll have to get used to it. Ravagers seem like the sort to give each other black eyes in casual greeting. 

On cue, a Ravager from way back in the milling crowd spots someone he knows in the gaggle to Kraglin's front and enthusiastically plows to join them. He barges Kraglin as he goes. Kraglin shoves back – of course he does. "Oi, watch it!" 

…And then regrets it, as he meets eyes slitted like a lizard's and teeth that are bigger than his but just as sharp. Four knuckles are cracked in front of his face, set into a fist approximately the size of his head. "Or continue. Y'know, either way." 

" _You_ watch it, greenie," the creature sneers. Kraglin's never seen someone like him (and never wants to again). He assumes he's from an outworld, a planet unaffiliated with the Nova Empire – although he remembers Isla's advice and doesn't ask. _Dangerous,_ warns the little voice in the back of his mind, the one he actually listens to on occasion. _Savage._

This is one of those occasions. 

Swallowing around the lump in his throat, Kraglin's eyes swim as they try to focus on the nearest knuckle. He shrinks away like a shriveling cock. Lizard-guy, sensing weakness, looms closer. The amount of teeth visible between his scaly lips multiplies to a degree that can't be compatible with Euclidean geometry. Holding his breath, Kraglin prepares for a painful death. Then cracks open an eye, as a voice speaks up from behind his assailant – 

"Oi, careful. Horuz bet on this hour." 

Whatever that means. Still, it makes Lizard-guy pause. Kraglin watches through squinted, untrusting eyes as the Ravager considers, then blows out air in a cold huff that has hairs springing to attention all along his neck. 

"Damn," Lizard-guy says, sounding almost humanoid for a second. "Well, I ain't lettin' that fucker win, that's for sure." 

Kraglin has the oddest sensation of being the centerpiece of the conversation while also being ignored. Lizard-guy steps in front of him, blocking his view of the rest of the circle with an expanse of leather-clad back. He's got slits cut into the coat, Kraglin notices, through which his hide can be seen. Each bark-like scale is larger than the entire pad of Kraglin's thumb. In fact, all of their uniforms seem to have been customized. Kraglin glances around the hall, trying to be unobtrusive while keeping an ear on the conversation. Yes – everyone's done something to single themselves out from the mass of dark red leather. An extra strap here. A patch stitched there. Ribbing down the arms or a stiff-starched collar. Kraglin considers his own leathers, woefully unadorned. Perhaps that's why everyone knows he's green. 

"That was – what, the lowest bet?" Lizard-guy continues. One of his friends shakes her shaved head with a chuckle. 

"Nah. Udonta reckoned he wouldn't survive first shift." 

Kraglin frowns. This whole betting business suddenly makes a lot more sense. Laughing, Lizard-guy rocks on his heels and lets out a low whistle. "Harsh." 

Harsh indeed. Kraglin's fists clench. They're betting on his life, and some jackass didn't think he could last four fucking hours? 

He doesn't have the chance to be more affronted though – or to nurture grudges against Isla and this mysterious Horuz fellow, for setting his death-date respectively at twenty-four hours and nine. The queue's been shuffling at a zombie-pace while he's been distracted, and he finds himself in front of a corrugated hatch that tips the end of a chute like a blunt-edged fingernail. 

_Clunk_ , sounds from his right. Then again – _clunk, clunk, clunk_. All along the line, hatches shoot open and bowls of something that looks like mashed draov eggs comes skidding out. One crashes to slop against Kraglin's belt. He grimaces at it. But it ain't likely to get more appetizing over time, and the bellow of "Get a move on, rookie!" spurs him to grab a fork from the unit besides and scramble to find an unoccupied piece of wall, head tucked low to his chest. 

He can feel people looking at him. 

After a childhood of petty pick-pocketing, reliant on one's ability to saunter past a Nova patrol without attracting suspicion, that's not the most assuring sensation. He wonders if they're waiting to see him drop dead, and then wonders if this Horuz chap would poison his meal to ensure victory. But if he starts thinking like that, he ain't gonna be able to stop. A month on board's already looking like hell warmed over. Kraglin can't face adding a hunger strike to his torments. And so, he shovels down his eggs in five bites, pulling a face as they slither stomachwards. He waits a minute, just to be sure – but there's no telltale acid ache as his innards digest themselves. Horuz ain't winning this one. 

Kraglin dumps his bowl into the washing chute, and goes to find somewhere he can piss in peace. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Eeeeh what the hell. I'll drop y'all an update on Wednesday too, as this chapter's so scene-setty. Still, hope you guys liked it~ xx**


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin acquires a mop and a friend.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Happy Wednesday! Also happy end-of-fic day - I'm posting two updates, because my beginnings tend to be slow-going, and because I'm celebrating finishing 'What Doesn't Kill You'.**
> 
>  
> 
> **...And because I think you all deserve a bit of Yondu.**
> 
>  
> 
> **You may recognise this OC.**
> 
>  
> 
>  

His next shift is labelled simply as 'scrubbing'.

There's no designated placement. No name to comm neither. So Kraglin sets off aimlessly through the labyrinth of corridors and crawl-ways, trying to commit some of them to memory. In fact, he's so focused on where he's going that when he stumbles over someone who's not in a hurry to get somewhere else, it's quite literal. 

His victim's a girl, skin an obnoxious Xandarian pink. She's on all fours, muttering to herself as she attacks a boot scuff with an ineffectually soft brush. Kraglin's foot hooks her calf. He goes down like a blown-out Nova ship. His face cracks neatly against the spot the girl had been working on, but as he topples she manages to wreak vengeance by clocking him on the temple with her brush. 

"Fuck!" Kraglin clutches his skull like he's trying to hold it together, unsure which part hurts most. "Ow!" 

"Ow!" counters the girl right back. Then she actually looks at him, and the brewing fight slumps out of her. "Watch where you're goin', greenie." 

That's… new. 

Surprised that his presence is inciting mere irritation as opposed to out-and-out animosity, Kraglin stays where he is instead of shuffling away – or at least, he does until the girl lifts the scrub brush and menaces his other ear. "The fuck you trying t'do? Cop a feel?" 

Kraglin doesn't dare leer and prove her right. He scrambles backwards like she's leaking radiation. "No. No! Sorry." 

The girl rolls her eyes at him, bows her head, and returns doggedly to the task at hand. Bristles swirl over metal, then dunk into a bucket of water dirtier than the floor it's cleaning. The process repeats every five seconds or so – _skrrsh, splt, skrrsh, splt_ – regular as a nodding donkey. Kraglin inches closer. "Um. What you doin', anyway?" 

"What's it look like." 

That… doesn't sound like a question he's supposed to answer. More rhetorical-like, really. Kraglin swallows, prays his reflexes are fast enough to save him from the grotty scrub brush that will no doubt end up being flung at his head, and answers anyway. 

"Well, it looks like you're scrubbin'. And y'see, the thing is, I oughta be scrubbin' too, but I don't really know what to do or where to get the stuff –" His monologue's snipped by a grunt and an aggrieved heave of the girl's shoulders. She waves her brush – Kraglin flinches – towards an open panel, which cuts a wedge from the rust-red wall. 

"Cleaning crap's in there. Grab a mop or something and check yer map for where's flagged up. Just make sure ya bring it back to this floor, or the guy checking supplies next shift'll get pissy." 

"'Kay…" Kraglin moves to the panel, and squints inside. The cupboard's deeper than expected, cut into the sloped wall until it meets the flank of the next hall over, and edged with flaky piping. He'd probably be able to wriggle his torso inside if he tried hard enough, the rest of him at a push. As it is, he need only slot in an arm and grope to locate the handle of a droopy-headed mop that's taller than he is. "Right," he says. Then, in hope – "So, you don't need no help here then?" 

"No," says the girl shortly. She scrubs harder. Kraglin imagines her wearing through scuff and floor and out the other side. "I'm only here because Dagada knows I'm on scrub-duty now. A-hole put this here himself, I'll bet." Her voice isn't so much vehement as venomous. Kraglin studies the way she sneers at the dirt-patch she's working on and decides that she must be replacing it with this Dagada-character's face. Motivation, he supposes. Whatever works. 

Propping his mop in the chink between two uneven grills, Kraglin leans on it and swivels to appraise the tunnel in all its dank and dusty glory. "Y'know, I don't think anyone'd notice if ya slacked off. This place ain't exactly a Nova barracks, if you get my drift." 

Panting, the girl pushes back a hank of sweat-darkened purple hair. She aims her scowl at him instead. "Dagada would. First you barge into me, now you're tryin' ta get me in shit with the bo'sun? The fuck d'you think you are?" Kraglin pales. The harsh lines of the girl's face soften. "Aw heck," she grumbles. "You're just a greenie with a mouth on ya. You don't know how all this works. Ain't no point being mad at you." 

"You seem to be the only one who thinks so," Kraglin tells her. That wins a whip-crack of a laugh. She dabbles the tips of her brush bristles, then slaps them over the scuff hard enough to propel water drops at Kraglin's bootcaps. 

"There ain't nobody on this crew who made friends on their first day, greenie. Don't bust an eyeball over it." _Shrrk, shrrk, shrrk, splat._ Scrub-girl gives her tool a more thorough drenching, and continues to scour the floor as if she's buffing it to a mirror. At least she's louring at it and not him. "They'll warm up. If you survive the first month, they'll ask yer name. Watch that gob of yours for the next five, and they might start to like ya." 

Which reminds him. 

Kraglin dithers over sharing the tale – this girl seems marginally nicer than the rest, or at least, marginally less likely to haul his ass out an airlock for making an honest mistake (admittedly, experience up to this point may have lowered his standards). And she's cute to boot. In a pink kinda way. After Isla, he doesn't feel confident in asking questions of his own – so he might as well say something of himself, and see what comes out of it. Heck, perhaps she'll find it as amusing as lizard-guy and his friends. 

"They've started a betting pool about me, y'know." 

"Yeah, I know." The splash of her brush in the bucket drowns Kraglin's disappointment. "They do that every now and again, when someone joins from Xandar territory. Most folks like that think far too much of themselves to survive long." She snickers under her breath. "Picked you off one of them posh ports too, so you're less likely to last than most." 

Well, that's just gross misinformation. Offended, Kraglin crosses his arms. "Oi, I might've come aboard at that naffy place, but I weren't native or nothing. I'm Hraxian. Born and bred." 

"And I don't give a shit." Of course she doesn't. Kraglin slumps. "Hey, y'know what the bets are? I might get in on 'em this time." 

Suddenly, this whole thing – this assfuck of a day, the casual banter over when he's going to die; heck, this whole crazy, _stupid_ plan that he'd cobbled together on the spur of the moment, when he'd spotted a swarm of red-clad outlaws flooding the dock and had decided that once he'd joined a fucking space pirate crew everything would be miraculously _better_ – it's all too much. 

"Thank you," says Kraglin. He wrestles his mop free of the metal crevasse and settles it crossly over one shoulder, glowering at her leather clad back. "Thank you, very fuckin' much." 

He means to march off there and then. But the girl glances up, fringe flopping, and grins. "Hey c'mon. I'd give ya at least a fortnight, greenie." 

It's… it's better than anything he's gotten so far. 

Anger evaporates as Kraglin sighs. He squeezes the tension from his nose bridge with the hand not stabilizing the mop; the throb in his temple has waned, but only because it's been subsumed by the pressure behind his eyeballs. He's tired. He's worn. He feels like a man who's been chased halfway across the quadrant for the sake of some dumb, fake necklace and one little bullet that had gone awry. The canteen eggs sit like melted lead in his stomach, and all he wants is to drop into a soft, warm bed. 

This must be serious. He ain't never had a soft warm bed before, and he doubts that'll change here. 

"Isla said I'd last the night," he says pathetically. "And someone called Horuz gave me most of today – until dinner, at least." The girl's passes of the brush continue. But they slow considerably, and she tilts her head, lips pursed. 

"Interesting." 

Kraglin's not done yet though. He paces the corridor lengthways, side-to-side. The mop-head thwacks on the light panels every time he turns, and he's got the staff clenched so hard that he can hear the plastic grains creak. "But this one guy… He's called, uh, Odontu, or something? He didn't think I'd make four hours." He lets the words hang. For some reason, the girl doesn't seem especially surprised. In fact, she snorts and ducks her head once again. Kraglin tacks on a desperate "Can you believe it?" 

Because heck, that prediction is ridiculous, right? How many Ravager recruits kick the bucket in the first four hours? And what about Kraglin suggests that he might be one of them? 

The mop smears the central ceiling strut in his agitation. Scrubgirl glances up and groans. "Calm yer tits, Mohawk. That's Yondu's idea of a joke." A pause. "I think." 

Kraglin laughs, a little higher than usual. "That's really reassuring." 

"Look, just…" She waves the brush wordlessly for a moment, then verbalizes her frustration with a drawn-out, aggravated hiss. "Get yer map out, would ya?" 

He's got nothing else to do. Kraglin obeys. He sees, to his surprise, that the usual schematics, red-brown: the colour of arterial Hraxian blood, are now smattered through with flashing yellow dots. "There," Scrub-girl says. "Beacons. Folks'll flag up where there's been a spill, or whatnot. They pop up on your chart there. You go clean 'em. Simple, right?" Simpler than anything else he's encountered today. He must look haggard, because Scrub-girl sighs at him and doesn't bother to toss in a last freebie insult as she shoos him on. "Go clean somethin'. Whatever it is that's buggin' you… Well, it ain't gonna make it better. But it might take your mind off it, and that's something, right?" 

Something indeed. Kraglin checks the map again, isolating the nearest (he thinks) blip, which is located in a network of ladders between this floor and the one above. He pauses before he reaches the corner. 

"So, no one's gonna ask after my name before I've survived a month?" Scrub-girl nods. Kraglin clears his throat, and rubs the rough plastic of the mop handle over the back of his neck, in absence of a hand. "Um… is it alright if I ask for yours?" 

He's once again subjected to that wary appraisal. Then the Xandarian nods. "Morlug," she says. 

It's better than 'Scrub-girl'. Kraglin smiles. "Nice t'meetcha, Morlug." 

"Likewise, greenie. Now fuck off." 

He snaps to a saucy salute, mop slapping on the light – "Yes, ma'am." And off he fucks. 

Behind him, the brush scrapes away. The furious scritching eats at his eardrums until he's well round the corridor and away. 

________________________________________ 

He's halfway through wiping up his seventh spillage of the shift – this a familiar shade of draov egg orange, albeit with a semi-digested texture and a lingering bile-sour aroma; apparently some folks didn't like their dinner – when it happens. 

There's a burst of holographic light. That's enough to startle him. Then the chronometer strapped around his wrist blares like a Kree raid siren. Kraglin jumps, banging his head on the low doorframe, and stumbles cussing against the airlock. He almost avoids standing in the mess. Once he's ascertained that they're not under attack, that the ship isn't violently depressurizing and that he hasn't banged the self-destruct button with his stupid oversized mop-handle (the novelty of which wore off sometime between the sixth and seventh compensation-joke) he forces himself to breathe, and locates the source of the infernal noise. 

His wristpiece is flashing. The words night and cycle scroll intermittently over the pixelated surface. Kraglin stares at the words until they sink into the tired, porous mass that he once called a brain. Then goggles. 

"Shit." 

Because the room icon flashing next to the digits reading time and astral-date? That's not the one Thrabba'd assigned him. _Isla_. Double shit. 

What was it he'd been told? Once his night-cycle alarm goes off, he's got eight hours to find his designated cabin and bunk. Then he can start catching up on all the sleep he's lost since fleeing the Cartel. It's long overdue – he can feel the pains and twinges of a manual day's work settling atop of his previous aches, and knows he's going to be stiff in the morning. Second proper day tomorrow too, and he doesn't doubt it'll be a busy one. Honestly, what's he waiting for? Sure, Isla had bet for twenty-four hours. But Kraglin figures he can deal with any of the more volatile crewmembers Isla throws at him and still come up kicking. He's been practicing his spine-trick, after all. 

And really, how bad can cabinmates be? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope you enjoyed! You'll find out what Isla's grand design is... immediately. Head on over to the next chappie.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Drop me comments if you liked! xx**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Isla may have accidentally played matchmaker.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yondu's sleepy-talk is based off my mum when she's drunk.**

His bunk is number thirteen.

Kraglin has the sense to double-check, though his eyes are hot and prickly and he can't stop yawning. Stress fucks up your sleep schedule, and the stress of running for your life does so like nothing else. Being given eight hours in which his orders amount to nothing more than 'rest' has made his body kick into hibernation mode. But there it is – plain as day. Block D4, bunk n#13. Kraglin locates the correct bed, part of a stack of five cots that look as narrow as his prison bed and about as comfortable. Then he climbs the ladder, and all but falls into its stiff-mattress'd embrace. 

Finally – _finally_ – he shuts his eyes. 

And opens them again four hours later, when the telltale creak of the ladder is the only warning he gets before a body (or possibly, an entire M-ship) crashes down on top of him. 

"Th'fuck's th's -?" someone complains, words slurred into one. "If thas you, Varra, I'mma put m'fuckin arrow inyer guts…" 

That's as far as they get. 

Kraglin, remembering only that he's wanted alive but preferably dead by the biggest crime syndicate on Hrax, flails awake with a holler and starts swinging. 

His punches connect. There's an 'oof' as he finds the guy's stomach, and another as he socks him in the jaw. His attacker flails back, saved from being flung off the bed only by the smack of his skull against the ladder. The sound isn't what Kraglin's expecting. It's… dull somehow. Like metal struck plastic instead of bone. Still, the attacker's reaction is fitting. Knees brush Kraglin's stomach as the guy curls up, head tucked to his chest and cradled between big blue hands. 

"F'ckin hell," he moans. Now that the assassination attempt has been averted, Kraglin's adrenaline dips enough to let 

sense swim back. With it comes the realization that the Kree guy he's just assaulted doesn't look especially assassination-inclined. And that he has a familiar coat, bundled at his feet and kicked to the cot's far end. A Ravager-red coat. One that's… noticeably bloodstained. 

Kraglin gulps. All his self-imposed rules about toeing the line and keeping his head down until he finds a nice, quiet little satellite to jump ship? Flushed away, whirling into the infinite cosmos like shit from a primitive ship that ain't yet developed matter converters. This is the cell on Hrax all over again. Only worse – so much worse. Because this time, he's actually done something to warrant a shanking. 

The only consolation is that the other man seems as surprised as he is. An arm uncurls from over his forehead, and Kraglin finds himself the target of a baleful red eye. "Who th'fuck're you?" asks his uninvited bedmate. Kraglin's swallow sticks to the inside of his throat. 

"I'm, uh, not supposed to tell ya my name," he edges out. "Not for a month, they said." 

He gets an uncomprehending blink for his troubles. And – hell, is it just him, or does this guy look tired? Like, seriously tired? The bags beneath his eyes would make decent hanger bays. 

Comprehension dawns in a sluggish burst. "Y'rth'greenie. Y'ain't dead yet?" 

Kraglin tries for a nervous smile. "That's me. And I'm still kicking. Sorry t'disappoint." The smile isn't returned. Kraglin's fingers start picking at the edge of the pillow. "Um. I'm sorry?" he tries. "About, y'know." A wave of the hand, to encompass whatever blunt head trauma he inflicted while half-in the land of nod. 

"Shut the fuck up," groans someone from the bunk above, but Kraglin isn't interested in them. 

The red eye narrows. "Had worse." 

Kraglin believes it. What little skin that isn't hidden beneath the guy's polo neck is sprinkled with scar tissue. Fella looks like he's been fed through a rocket engine backwards. He spies red beneath the remaining protective hand, and thinks for one awful moment it's blood: that he's cracked him open and his brains are leaking out onto the pillowcase. He doesn't know how Ravagers handle those who kill their own – whether they laugh it off, or if there's punishment in store. But he sure hopes this guy doesn't have anyone who'll miss him. 

Then the fingers uncurl, and Kraglin sees that what he'd thought was scrambled, bloody grey-matter is a crystal implant, driven like a chisel into the man's crown. And remembers that Kree bleed blue, anyways. He relaxes. Not a murderer today. 

Then abruptly tenses as the Kree-guy starts talking again, still in his rasping somnambulist’s slur. "Th'fuck're you doing in m'bed, greenie?" 

"Your bed?" Kraglin shakes his head, and holds up his watch. "It's mine – look, says so, right here." 

They consider the flashing digits together. Kree-guy is the one to state the obvious. "Says yer in C-block." 

Kraglin clicks the watch off and pinches his nose again. "I can see that." 

"This's D." 

"I'm aware." 

A pause. 

"Th'fuck're you doin' in m'bed?" 

…And they're back to where they started. The man, if possible, sounds more pissed than before. Kraglin holds up his hands, closes his eyes until he feels ready to face this situation, and attempts an explanation. "There's this… this person. Lotsa piercings. Calls themselves Isla." 

"Fucking Isla," grumbles Kree-guy. At least they agree on one thing. 

"Right. So, they – xir?" 

A tired huff. "She." 

"She did somethin' to my schedule. I pissed her off, I think. I…" Perhaps mentioning how said pissing-off occurred isn't the wisest idea? Isla's sensitivity about her homeplanet, wherever it may be, might not be something she wants to share. Kraglin snaps his mouth shut, and finishes with an anticlimactic shrug. "So, well… Here I am." 

There's no answer from Kree-guy. There is, however, a drawn out groan from one of the bunks opposite. It's echoed by the person above, who tosses something that rebounds off the bedpost with a boot-like thunk. "For the love of God… Shut up…" 

Kree-guy's expression sours so fast Kraglin almost dives for cover. "You shuddup, Varra!" he roars. Then, after listening a second to ensure that the shocked silence remains that way, spits out a series of unintelligible lizardy clicks and collapses face-first, hard enough to make the springs creak. 

There's no retaliation from the bunk above. That can't be good – for the Kree or him. And hell, after today, Kraglin doesn't want to be making any more enemies than he already has. 

He curls up where he sits, plastering himself against the wall. His baggy socks crimp Kree-guy's thigh. "D'you think you could budge over?" he whispers. "I can get out, if ya climb down first…" The look on Kree guy's face informs him that he's just committed a breach of etiquette equivalent to asking for seconds at a Xandarian banquet. Kraglin backs down. "Or, or you could just… stay there. Yup. Sounds good." 

"Shuddup, m'sleepy." Kree guy rolls onto his side, treating Kraglin to a waft of B.O. Those freaky eyes slip closed. "I'll kill Isla n'the mornin'," he mumbles. "An' if ya fuckin' wake me up, I'll whistle." 

Whatever that means. 

There's no time to ask though. Kree guy steals all the blankets, rolls the pillow to his side of the bed – blocking off the last conceivable escape route between the ladder and the bedpost. Then he puts his scarred head down and promptly starts snoring. 

Kraglin stares at him. Then at the chronometer, which is informing him that he only has four hours left before his next shift. "Fuck," he says. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, we finally have a meeting! And of course, it's gone terribly. Tune in on Saturday for how Kraglin worms his way out of this one.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Drop me a comment if you enjoyed? :) They mean the world to me.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin makes some new friends, the bo'sun is a dick, and that mysterious Udonta guy remains a jackass.**

The next morning isn’t as dire as Kraglin expects. Although it does come close.

He’d drifted into an uneasy doze, back tight to the wall in an effort to touch as little of Kree-guy as possible. Thankfully whoever Isla has seen fit to victimize in her game is the only person onboard more tired-looking than Kraglin himself, and he sleeps deeper than a corpse swaddled in breeze-blocks and sent to the bottom of an ice lake. Kraglin stops wincing every time Varra rearranges himself: an action which ricochets through the bunk stack’s rickety frame. He even lets himself relax. Just a little. 

Sure, he’d rather Isla had chosen Morlug’s bunk. But he hasn’t been butchered – or whistled at – which counts as a victory on his end. 

Ha. She’ll never collect on that bet now. 

Enthused by his foiling of her plot, Kraglin allows himself a little fist pump as he starts to plan his escape. Isla’s not making money off his untimely demise, not today. Horuz neither. And as for Yondu Udonta, well… Fuck that jackass. Kraglin’ll show ‘em all. 

But for now, he’s only got half an hour before his morning shift, and if he wants to grab a shower and take a shit, he’s got to devise a way to extract himself from behind the wall of passed out Kree. Kraglin spares a moment to check the guy’s unconscious face. It’s lax. The snores have petered out – thank god – and now he’s drooling on his bicep, snuffling quietly on the exhale. 

Kraglin is, for one utterly absurd second, tempted to poke him. Then he remembers that he’s not suicidal, and resists. 

He’s debating whether he dares shove the Kree guy’s legs off the bed and make a dive for it, when a head pops down to fill the dark space between mattress and bunk above. 

“Greenie?” someone whispers, voice hoarse. 

Kraglin perks, leaning forwards as best he can. Then jerks back again when he brushes the Kree’s upturned shoulder. Kree-guy mumbles some more of those weird clicks into the pillow, fingers curling, but doesn’t rouse. Kraglin slowly settles into his nest. “Varra?” he tries. Was that the guy’s name? 

There’s an affirmative hum. “Wanna get out of there, greenie? They give him twelve hours after he’s done a solo, and he ain’t gonna move for at least that.” Varra chuckles. “And trust me, you don’t wanna be around if the captain decides to come wake him herself.” 

The captain. Kraglin hasn’t met her yet – thank fuck – but the mere mention of the title’s enough to have his bladder shivering. Which in turn, reminds him of the other reason he so desperately needs liberation from his Kree-walled cell. “Think you could help me?” he asks. “I kinda need to pee.” Varra’s head, silhouetted against the faint light streaming from under the dormitory door, nods. The only part of him Kraglin can make out is the eerie white of his grin. 

“Feel up – above your head. Yeah. Thatssit. Alright, you got a hold of them bars?” Kraglin nods, not liking where this is going. “They’ll take your weight.” Varra must have better night-vision than him, because he catches Kraglin’s frown and husks out a laugh. “Seriously. If they take mine, they’ll take yours. Not that there’s much to take.” Another laugh. Kraglin forces a smile. “Shit, greenie, we gotta feed you up! I bet you hear that a lot, don’t you?” 

Kraglin’s smile strains valiantly wider. “Yeah. Could you be a bit quieter?” 

Varra’s hands appear, flapping in dismissal. “He’s out. Quit worrying, greenie.” From what he can see of the guy, Kraglin can understand that a six metre headfirst plummet might be something he can scoff off. He braces himself to watch the big guy slither forwards. But Varra doesn’t slip an inch, despite the apparent absence of any grip and the fact that he’s dangling from the waist down. “C’mon,” he hisses, beckoning Kraglin with both hands. “You wanna get to the bathroom before Figs takes her turn.” 

“I heard that!” growls a woman from the bunk below. Kraglin peers through the crack and glimpses green scales and crazy blonde hair. Skrull-cross, and with a dandelion by all appearances. 

“Are you guys on shift now too?” he asks, voice at its lowest register as he takes careful hold of the bunk’s slatted underside. His fingers already ache from the weight of the mattress – he realizes that Varra must be balanced over the sidebar, feet braced against the far bedposts to stop himself falling. Thank fuck. If his bulk was pressing down on him too, Kraglin could bid goodbye to his metacarpals. 

The slice of Figs’s face visible through the gap scrunches, as she squints at the slice of his own. “You, me, and the rest of our bunk-stack. Except sleeping beauty there. Now come on – me and Varra are holding us steady so you won’t go rattling off the walls.” 

It’s ridiculous. One day and one night on this godawful ship, and Kraglin’s ready to kiss their boots at this small show of kindness. 

Giving the bars a final test – they squeak at the rivets – he nods to Varra, who hoists his massive trunk out of his line of escape. Then he draws a deep breath, and pushes gently off the wall. It’s one of the rare times he’s grateful he came out such a skinny bugger; it’d be hard as heck to hoist himself along otherwise. A tuck of his feet, a nerve-racking groan from the bedframe (and an even more nerve-racking one from the occupant) and Kraglin lifts parallel to the mattress, his abdomen sucked tight. He keeps his legs curled and inches from rung to rung on aching fingers until he can drop with a wheeze on the bar at the far side of the sleeping Kree. He props his forehead against the chilly slats of Varra’s bunk, shooting him a silent thanks, which Varra waves off. 

“Hurry it up, greenie,” urges Figs from below. “You got five seconds to get past my bunk before I call dibs on bathroom. You too, Varra.” Varra swears, sitting bolt-upright, and bypasses the ladder completely in favor of rolling over the side of the bunk and flipping to the floor to retrieve his lost boot. Whoever’s in the top bed tosses another to bounce off his head. It does minimal damage – mostly because it’s ten sizes smaller than the one on Varra’s foot. Scrambling down the ladder, Kraglin peers at him in awe. 

“Damn, you’re big.” 

Varra’s shrug is carefree. “High-gravity planet.” He’s not Kronan, and there’s no other HG-systems under Nova reign. He must be another outworlder – although compared to Lizard-guy, Varra’s practically an Adonis. Kraglin’s eyes widen. 

“Cool!” 

“Five, four, three, two, one,” says Figs irritably. She pushes over her bar to land light as a cat besides the thin-toed pair of boots Kraglin assumes belong to her. “Snap, snap, fuckers. Time’s a-ticking, and I’m feeling _eggy_ after last night.” 

There’s a panicked flurry of blankets from bunks top and bottom alike, the Kree guy a motionless blue filler in their sandwich. Kraglin doesn’t stick around to see who emerges – he’s hopping after Varra for the washblock at the dormitory’s far end, whispering apologies to the night-cycling Ravagers who lift middle fingers at them as they pass, and trying to tie up his boots while navigating a pitch-black room and remaining vaguely vertical. Start of the second day, and he’s not dead yet. At least he’s gonna get better at multitasking, he figures. 

________________________________________ 

And he is – getting better at multitasking, that is. And it’s a damn good thing. 

After squeezing out a shit and ducking his head under the leaky shower nozzle long enough to sluice off the toppermost layer of sweat and grime, Kraglin trudges on towards his next shift – M-ship upkeep – stopping off at the canteen halfway to grab a sticky breakfast bowl. It’s oats and something, miscellaneous. Probably best to keep it that way. 

From what he can tell, M-ships get gifted or sold to the more senior Ravagers after they’ve proved they can handle themselves solo. It’s a status sign as well as a functional reward – once an M-ship goes to a Ravager, repair and fueling’s their responsibility, rather than that of the Ravagers-in-training. For now, Kraglin’s half-buried amid dinged fuel canisters and pistons still scalding to the touch, puzzling out how an M-ship’s engine operates from the manual he’s got open on his wristpiece. He pities whichever poor sod has to fly this thing once he’s through with it. Perhaps, if he fucks up bad enough and it explodes before it’s left the hanger, he’ll get pulled off the repairs shift. 

And put on scrub indefinitely. 

Yeah, he only plans on being here… what? Six weeks, at the most. But that’s still a sobering thought. Kraglin swipes an oil-blackened finger through the hologram. The light particles fizzle and flip, and he’s presented with a bird’s eye that _almost_ matches the one in front of him. Who knows? This could be a productive experience. He could learn something. Might even get to pilot one of these things – he’s dismantled the drive shaft, and while he hasn’t the first clue how to put it together again, he’s been able to determine that it operates similarly to the junkship he’d stolen for his grand escape. Put a baby like this in his hands, and he’ll make it turn loops. 

He finds the nut he’d dropped: under a coolant nodule, which, from the crystallized dry-ice crackling across its surface, has sprung a leak. Excellent. He just prays his jacket’s as impervious to the cold as it is to heat. And air. And his sweat – which has started to form a second insulatory layer between the leather and his skin. 

It’s not the most comfortable of positions – torso immersed in the engine pod while his long legs kick out behind. What sparse fat covers his belly is sliced by the pod’s angled lip. If he wants to fix that nodule he’s going to have to crawl in further, head-first, and pray that someone’ll be around to grab his ankles and haul him out again once he’s finished. Deciding he deserves a breath of fresh air before his dive – fresh-ish: air that’s not so thick with fuel fumes that he might as well be sucking an exhaust pipe – Kraglin steadies himself on the pod’s sides and unwedges his head and shoulders. 

That’s when he sees Morlug. Girl’s clambering down the ladder out of one of the flashier M-ships, her purple hair blotchy with engine grease. The ship’s one of the personalized ones, strapped ten metres up in a sturdy harness, its hood magnetized to the docking bay above. Orange flames pour abundantly from its engines – thankfully, only of paint. Whoever its owner is (and they’re high-ranking, if it’s docked next to the ship with all the dings and dents that Varra had pointed out as belonging to the first mate) they’ve either got a sick sense of humor or a deathwish. 

Morlug, who’s hopped off the last rung of the ladder with a bucket of cleaning equipment clunking at her waist, answers that question for him. She stomps across to the man who Kraglin’d assumed was supervising, and tosses a dirty rag in his face. 

”Fuck you,” she hisses. “You spilt that shit everywhere just so I’d have to clean it up, didn’t you? What if it'd leaked through your circuits? Could have fritzed you in take-off; done us all a favor!” 

The guy she’s talking to has his back to Kraglin. They’re a far way off – he only recognizes Morlug from the hair. But he can tell that he’s wearing a sleeveless jacket. Is he too important to be working engines or repairs? Or is his skin tougher than the dipped leather that’s gotten Kraglin through his first few chemical spills? 

…And are those flame tattoos, etched up his biceps? 

Kraglin scoffs. He matches his M-ship. What a tool. 

His theory’s confirmed when the guy pats Morlug condescendingly on the head, relieves her of her bucket, and pulls up a chart of work-shifts. Kraglin sees the multi-colored column that can only be Morlug’s quiver to a familiar purple. Scrub. For what appears to be the next year. Kraglin swallows. That’s motivation to get his head down, if nothing else is. He buries himself in the engine pod to the muffled, dulcet tones of Morlug’s swearing. 

________________________________________ 

Lunch follows. Kraglin dithers over waiting for Morlug. She’s suspended from a winch, in turn attached to the slender metal rail that runs all the way around the flame-dude’s M-ship. There’s a washcloth in one hand and a bucket in the other, and she’s smearing a concoction of suds and spit-gobbins over his hull. When she needs to move to the next panel, she flicks an icon on her wristpiece until the mechanism groans into life, clunking her round by degrees. 

Kraglin makes to wave. Then catches a glimpse of her face, angry and aubergine, as she hoiks up another wet wadge and puts her back into spraying it over flame-dude’s headlights. 

”Fucking bo’sun,” she sneers. 

Kraglin could speak up. Could commiserate. Could offer to give her a hand filing the dusty space-slime out from between flame-dude – the bo’sun’s – grills. 

Or he could not get involved, head out on lunch-break, and pretend he never saw her. 

Walking into mess, Kraglin has to pull up short so that he doesn’t tread on Lizard-guy’s heels. Fuck. Lizard-guy, expecting one of his angular scaly buddies, turns with a grin – then sees Kraglin and transfigures it into a cruel snicker. “You ain’t dead yet?” 

Kraglin peers longingly past him to the kitchen hatches. But ensuring that his skin stays over his internal organs rather than patching lizard-guy’s jacket is the bigger priority. “Yeah,” he says, aiming for pleasant and achieving a generous civil. “Guess that’s Isla and Horuz out of the bet. And Udonta.” Jackass. “Uh, did you…?” 

Lizard-guy slits his serpentine eyes. “This hour.” 

”Oh.” Kraglin’s rearwards shuffle is not the most subtle, and is thwarted anyway by the press of hungry Ravagers behind. “Uh…” 

Lizard-guy lets him sweat a long minute. Then reveals all of his jagged teeth. “Luckily for you, killing you myself would mean I forfeit.” Lucky indeed. Kraglin’s weak knees rediscover their cartilage. 

”That’s… that’s good,” he says. Lizard-guy’s eyes move independently, which makes for a roll both derisive and disturbing. 

”Whatever, rookie.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope y'all enjoyed. As you can probably tell by now, this fic's going to be a slow build. A sloooooow build! Still, things will pick up on Wednesday... ;)**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Please drop me a comment if you're following this fic! I love to hear from you.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which alcohol happens, more alcohol happens, and a very stupid decision is made.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Want more Yondu/Kraglin or generic Ravagers/gotg stuff? Head over to write-like-an-american.tumblr.com. I’ve already filled a couple of prompts, and I’m looking for more!**

And so it continues. Day in, day out. An endless circle of offensive engine vapors and worse bog-smells, of shoves and jeers and insults and the constant, casual reminder that nobody expects him to see the end of the week, let alone a month. Kraglin refuses to be worn down. It’s his eighth day. He’s already proved them wrong on the first front; he’ll show ‘em on the other too.

So, what’s changed? First and foremost: he’s getting used to the bellow of ‘greenie’ following him up the corridor – or ‘rookie’, or ‘fresh meat’, or other variation thereof. He responds without having to think, more often than not. It’s… a little unnerving. When the time comes for him to share his name, he sure hopes he still remembers it. 

“Rookie!” calls Isla, on cue. “Oi, you! Rookie!” 

He’s splashing about in a water leak off corridor 21, G-deck, bailing the spillage into a tank so they waste as little as possible. Morlug snarls and swears above him, armed with a welding torch. Hearing the bawl of his temporary title, Kraglin squeezes what water he can from his Mohawk – he’s under a near-on constant Niagara – and rises from his squat with a groan. He hears his spine creak. 

_Only three weeks left,_ he reminds himself. _Then they’ll start using your name, and you’ll only be assigned scrubs if you’re as dumb as Morlug and you keep talking back to the bo’sun._

One week aboard, and he’s already learnt who not to mess with, if only from the tales muttered behind Morlug’s cupped hands. He hasn’t seen the captain yet, let alone the first-mate – heck, he’s only caught the bo’sun from behind a coupla times because he’s been chewing out Morlug. 

This is the plan, right? Lay low. Don’t draw unnecessary attention. Stay out of trouble – just for one fucking month. Once that passes, he’ll be well on his way into the fourth quadrant. A few jobs here and there, a few more credits siphoned into his meager bank account, and he’ll be able to jump ship next time they land on a suitably peaceful-looking chunk of rock. No longer than six weeks. 

It is, Kraglin thinks, perfect. 

He’s so engrossed with thoughts of a quiet retirement on a bungalow satellite, whose snazzy double-spaceglass windows look out onto a nebula and which boasts a king-sized, creak-free bed, that he forgets who it is that’s approaching and greets Isla with a blithe and genuine smile. Her grin, which could be described as shit-eating, takes a turn for the amused. 

“You high, greenie?” 

Kraglin quickly sobers, sucking his cheeks in. “No.” 

“Whatever. C’mon, leave this to Morlug.” Morlug makes her opinion known. But the steel pipe-patch she’s got clenched between her teeth means that interpretation is a matter for the individual, and Isla delights in ignoring her. “First mate’s due back today,” she tells Kraglin, stopping just outside of the waterfall. It’s coming in stops and spurts now, like the spout from a center-pivot irrigator, and Kraglin vindictively prays for a large wave. And that Isla’s piercings rust. “It’s been a big job,” Isla continues, flexing her bandaged hand. “And I need someone who knows Nova patrolers to snoop planetside and scout out a bar that ain’t crawling, so we can throw us a decent party.” 

The offer sounds… good. A chance to get off ship. Breathe non-filtered air. Kraglin’s been confined to the galleon for the past four stations, and if he stays any longer he’ll forget what natural light looks like. Still… If there’s one thing Kraglin’s learnt about Isla from their last encounter, it’s that her friendliness should always be taken with a pinch of salt. Potentially, the whole damn shaker. 

He gives her a flat look, as Morlug cusses above him and another deluge of freezing water drenches the back of his neck. “What’s the catch?” 

“Catch?” Isla has the audacity to look confused. Just for a second. Then she guffaws, and Kraglin hears the rings punched into her belly jingle with the motion. “Aw, you still pissy about that thing with the beds? C’mon, greenie. It's just a joke. Learn to live a little.” 

“You were betting on my life,” Kraglin reminds her. Just in case she’s forgotten. Isla brushes the accusation away. 

“Can you blame us? Kid swans up while our refiller’s docked out in a fancy Nova fuel bay, and asks to be given the reds? I mean, heck, how old are you? Sixteen?” 

“Nineteen. And I’m Hraxian! Only reason I was on that piece-o’priss station was because I was on the run from the goddam Hraxian cartel –“ 

Isla retaliates with a not-so-gentle boot up the backside. “Heck, you’ve only lasted a week, not a month. Save your sorry life story til we know you're likely to be around long enough for us to give a shit.” 

Kraglin, about to launch into the whole wacky tale of laundered money, false Flengoffan diamonds, and misfiring antique pistols from the Nova’s pre-plasma age (give or take a little heroic embellishment) sullenly shuts his mouth. Above, there’s another sputtering shower. Then a whoosh, as Morlug ignites the welder, eyes squeezed up behind her dark goggles to protect her from the glare. Kraglin, also in goggles, has to look away. Isla, without them, cackles like a hyena and wades through the puddle to give Morlug’s calf a congratulatory slap. 

“Not fucking bad, kiddo!” she crows. Morlug, who is balanced halfway up the by now very slippery stepladder – she’d declined Kraglin’s offer of a shoulderride – has to scrabble to avoid dropping the lit welder on her head. Isla continues her passage, heedless, waving as she turns the corner. “Catch you in fifteen, rookie!” 

________________________________________ 

Planetside is… Not a planet. 

Which is a bit of a disappointment. But Kraglin’s from the biggest fuckin’ metropolized terraformation in the quadrant. Hrax is the concrete jungle of the Nova galaxy; it ain’t like he’s going to miss the feel of grass between his toes. So he steps off the shuttle ramp after Isla, boots scraping worn grey steel, and takes a lungful of air so deep it scratches his alveoli. He’s never really noticed before – what a difference there is between ship air, which is stored in a closed system with the exception of the occasional oxygen injection, then pumped and filtered through a million crumbly ventilation pipes; and satellite air, which is generated on site and dissipates whenever they turn off the artificial gravity. It’s not in the taste, like you’d expect. It’s in the texture. _Eclector_ air is irritant, dusty even when it doesn’t look it. The fans that keep it circulating are ancient things, their blades ribbed with rust, and sometimes you wake in the night with the coppery tang of oxidiszed metal lodged in the back of your throat and you can’t think why. This though… it’s smooth and sweet, dripping down his windpipe like honey. 

Kraglin rolls his shoulders, basking in the blue radiance of the far-off supergiant, and moans like he’s jizzed for the first time in a moon-cycle. Which, given how hectic things’ve been lately, is a damn good estimate. 

Isla, watching with undisguised merriment, barges his hip with her elbow, aiming for the nerve. “Damn, rookie! If I knew a bit of freshish air’d get you hard, I’d’ve dragged you planetside three stations back.” 

Kraglin has been victim of this particular attack enough on the ride over to know the angle to turn to so he only ends up with a bruise rather than jellified legs. “Really?” he asks. 

Because Morlug’s fun to bitch with an’ all. Wicked sense of humor, under all that grouch. And she’s surprisingly talkative once you get her started – although he still can’t convince her to hear his name (so far she’s walked away every time he’s tried, which’s effectively put a stop to his efforts. Better to have someone who jeers ‘greenie’ at you every now and again, than to be on your own.) But between that and the fact that she’s brushed off every one of his pick-ups, her lack of interest is clear. 

Now, Kraglin’s the first to admit that he’s a man with needs. And he really hopes that this month of semi-segregation doesn’t apply to the folks he fucks too. Yeah, Isla’s short and stout and would set every damn metal detector in a Nova building blaring if she came within a mile of the place. And she’s definitely… unique. But Kraglin’s not too choosy as far as looks go, and he bets she’d be a fucking wildcat in the sack. 

Isla sets his hormones to rest with a chuff of a laugh. “In your fucking dreams, kid. Now get walking. We scout the whole dang station before sundown.” 

________________________________________ 

In the end, Kraglin’s the one to find a suitable place – a basement establishment with thick walls, no Nova snoops for three blocks around, and a suitably disinterested-looking bartender. The few locals grubbing over holocards at a darkened table take one look at his Ravager coat and make for the exit. It is, Kraglin admits as his chest puffs to fill the loose-fitted jacket, a little bit awesome. 

Anyway – as a reward for his efforts, Isla bequeaths upon him a clap on the back, an offer to get him off his early shift tomorrow, and a magnanimous invitation for him to join them in their celebration. Kraglin hasn’t picked up on what it is they’re celebrating yet – something about the first mate pulling off a big-money retrieval gig that’ll earn enough for a full M-ship overhaul, and only getting shot once in the process; that’s the gist so far. News takes a while to filter through the ranks, and Isla’s too excited about the amount of alcohol she plans on consuming to communicate in any way that resembles effective. But hey. Who’s he to turn down booze and a party? 

You never know. They might have a few whores hangin’ around, seeing as all the Ravagers seem determined to coldcock him – that or he’s even uglier up here than he was on Hrax. Or they’re all already fucking each other. 

Kraglin rubs his palms, cool and slick with the condensation that’s beaded on the outside of his glass, and does his best not to think of Isla and Morlug frotting on the bartop. 

Speaking of Morlug… He hopes she’s not too mad at him for skipping out. He doubts it; first rule of Ravagers, there ain’t such a thing as loyalty when you’re on scrubs. If someone’d offered the same to her, she’d’ve tossed the welder in his face, flame and all, and fought her way to the nearest shuttle. He smirks to himself, and indulges in a long sip. 

“Drinks’re on Udonta,” Isla had said with a wink, and at his request, pointed him to the most expensive item on the menu. 

It tastes kinda crap, actually – too aromatic for his liking, like someone’s blended fruit puree and black vodka then infused the whole damn thing with rosewater. Like they’re trying to make perfume or some shit. But booze is booze. Party hasn’t started, and Kraglin’s already feeling a friendly buzz in his blood. Isla notices; next time he makes to take a gulp, she slaps her hand over the base of the flute, studs ringing off glass, and pins it to the table. 

“Fuck, rookie,” she seethes. “You really are nineteen. You wanna be passed out before they get there?” 

Cheeks heating – it’s the alcohol, he tells himself – Kraglin pushes the glass away. “Whatever.” 

Isla sneers right back. “Yeah, kid. Whatever. Help me fill these shot glasses.” She’s been pulling them up from behind the bar over the past hour, having effectively taken things over – the manager’s parked his ass on a table and is enjoying a smoke, and there’s rotgut of every color Kraglin’s rods and cones can distinguish, plus a few extra, all lined up along the shelves. There’s also tumblers. A ridiculous amount of tumblers, fanning out across bartop, counter, and a couple of pushed-together tables besides. Kraglin gawps at them, then at her. 

“I thought these were the ones we wasn’t gonna use.” 

Isla’s silver-dipped teeth glint. “You thought wrong.” 

“Shit. How many folks’re coming?” The bar’s not exactly small, and Isla’s acting like she means to outfit the place for the entire fleet. Isla answers with a shrug. 

“No more than fifteen. Seventeen if captain and bo’sun show up. Although they ain’t been invited.” It’s said airily, as is everything that comes out Isla’s mouth. Kraglin grabs a bottle that’s in his favorite shade of acid green, waits for Isla’s approving nod, and pours it evenly over the nearest line of shot glasses. The smell of liquor goes from potent to overpowering. 

“Captains don’t need invites, I’m guessing,” he says, finishing the bottle with a shake and gesturing for the next. Isla unstoppers it with her teeth, spitting the cap to one side, and hands it over. Her mouth is smiling, but the eyes above them are bleak. 

“You could say that.” There’s a silence, broken only by the slop of spirits. This one’s orange and zesty; Kraglin ain’t no connoisseur, but he can pick out the warm undertone of citrus that accompanies the alcoholic zing. He makes a mental note to go for those ones first. His musing’s broken, however, as his fingers brush Isla’s around the neck of the third bottle – this a deep-sea blue. “Hey, rookie?” 

“Yeah?” 

Isla’s fingers tighten. The hoops under her knuckles screech on the glass, and when he next looks at her, her face is as serious as he’s ever seen it. “The captain. If she shows… If anything happens tonight… Don’t you do nothing stupid.” 

There’s no more wisdom forthcoming. Isla releases the bottle and goes back to experimenting with cocktails, swilling from one bottle and then another, spitting some into the sink and swallowing most. 

“Well,” Kraglin can’t help but comment. “That’s the worst advice I’ve heard in my life.” 

Isla spits the next mouthful at him. He nearly splashes her in return – he has half a bottle, and thus the artillery advantage – before remembering that she can and will put him on scrub for the rest of eternity. 

The rest of the six weeks he has remaining, before he can put his retirement plan into action. 

That’s what he meant, of course. 

Kraglin scowls at her instead, tossing the bottle onto the empties pile. It shatters with a satisfying smash, and one of the barkeep’s pet robots scuttles from its hole to scoop up the mess. “Y’know,” says Isla, eyeing the carnage. “Perhaps this ain’t such a great idea after all. Heck, you’re nineteen.” She sighs, and rubs ruefully at her brown curls as she rolls another mouthful around her cheeks. “I think I oughta send ya back to ship.” 

Aw. No way. This is far too much fun. Kraglin ups his performance, emptying the next bottle fast enough to slosh buttercup booze down his pants. “I’ll behave,” he promises, depositing the finished bottle in the robot’s gangly arms. It chirrups in thanks; Kraglin points at it in explanation. “No more broken shit, I swear. See?” 

But Isla’s expression is solidifying into something firm and unyielding. “Kid,” she says. She even sounds regretful about it. “This was a bad decision from the start. I shouldn’t've gotten your hopes up – how about I cancel all yer shifts tomorrow, and you bugger off now? Deal?” 

“No deal,” Kraglin snaps. A day without shifts is a day spent trailing after Morlug or Varra, and getting roped into sponging stuff anyway. Varra ain’t the most graceful of folks, and things have a tendency to fall over when he’s around – plates, bowls, tanks of high-corrosive chemicals and the like. “Look, I’ll – I’ll be sensible. I’m not actually stupid, y’know. And I ain’t a fucking kid. I don’t care what sorta beef you all got with the captain. I can look out for myself.” 

Isla’s eyes go wide. “You’ll mind your mouth, rookie, if ya know what’s good for you,” she growls. “Ain’t none of us that’ve got a beef with the captain. Especially not the first mate. Understand? Because that. Would. Be. Mutiny.” 

…Kraglin may have, once again, bitten off slightly more than he can chew. His jaw works soundlessly for a moment. “Oh,” he finally manages. Isla takes another dark gulp – it’s unnecessary; she’s already spat a good gobfull of this stuff down the drain, but Kraglin figures that might be just the point. 

“Exactly. Fuck you, greenie; you’re too smart for yer own fuckin’ good. Now get your skinny ass back onboard before I chase it there.” 

Kraglin’s about to do it too. 

Then the door bursts open with a holler and a screech, and a flock of Ravagers pour in. From the look of ‘em, they’ve stopped off at a couple of bars already. Kraglin recognizes Varra and Figs – the latter nods to him occasionally, and the former indulges him in full conversations every once in a while (although heaven forbid he mention anything about name or former life). He wonders if the others from their bunk stack are there – the redheaded boot-throwing lass from the top and the fella on the bottom who he hadn’t seen more of than two elongated and pungently fungal feet. 

And Kree-guy, of course. Kraglin shudders. On second thoughts, perhaps it’s best if he never meets him again. 

Of course, the universe isn’t that kind. The doors barge apart for a second time, and all the Ravagers cheer. Even Isla’s distracted. Kraglin uses the opportunity to grab the next decanter and start pouring so that he looks like he’s supposed to be here. Then Varra stomps over to the newcomer and loudly proclaims “Nice one, Yondu!” loud enough to make the rafters shake. 

Kraglin almost drops the bottle. _Wait what?_

He looks up, stomach already descending to his knees, and spots Varra pounding the shoulder of none other than Kree-guy himself. Kraglin’s guts hit his ankles. Kree-guy – Yondu – withstands the barrage, and Varra drags him into a backthumping hug. 

“That the first mate?” Kraglin asks Isla out the corner of his mouth. Just to be sure. Her frown lets up a little. 

“Yeah.” 

“He’s Yondu? Yondu Udonta?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Udonta’s the guy whose bed ya dumped me in? The first fucking mate of the Ravagers?” 

Isla cracks her metal-strewn knuckles. “Oh, yeah.” 

Kraglin stares at her. Then wordlessly downs the nearest tumbler. And the next for good measure. Behind him, Udonta extracts himself from Varra’s embrace and works his way through the crowd of Ravagers, exchanging fist-bumps and toothy grins. 

“Somebody get me a fucking drink!” he roars, and Kraglin freezes as Isla slaps him on the wrist. 

“Go on then.” 

“Ain’t I supposed to be going back to ship…?” 

Isla’s smile is pure devilry. “Missed your chance.” 

Kraglin, life flashing before his eyes, takes the glass she holds out. It’s about as long as his forearm and filled with swirls of settling, separated liquid, spirit and mixer in alternating shades of red and blue. Because apparently, Isla’s sense of humor doesn’t only revolve around his misery. His walk over to Udonta is slower than a man on the Green Mile, and not just thanks to the density of the red leather clad bodies packed between them. When he reaches him, he offers the pint of whatever-the-fuck Isla’s concocted and keeps his eyes on Udonta’s boots. 

“The fuck's this?” Udonta asks, sounding delighted at the prospect of potential alcohol poisoning. 

“Geddit down in ten and I’ll clean that gross old M-ship of yours!” Isla yells. Which means Kraglin will. Dammit. Udonta takes the bait though, crooked grin turning wily. He turns his gaze on the drink – the smell of which is starting to sear Kraglin’s nostrils – like he’s scoping a mark. 

“You are fucking on, woman.” Great. He’s crazy as well as liable to murder. Kraglin’s thoughts on the matter are cemented as Udonta snatches the glass from his hand and, to the pound of Varra’s fist on the bartop and the vocal approval of every other damn Ravager in the place, starts to noisily chug. 

He doesn’t look at Kraglin once. 

Really, he should feel more relieved about that. 

“Three, two, one!” Isla chants. Udonta slurps the last drop, slams the glass into Kraglin’s hands hard enough to send him stumbling backwards, and lets out a mighty belch. They all whoop like maniacs. Varra leads the charge to the endless rows of shot glasses, Udonta dragged by the scruff of his coat. The herd of Ravagers stampede after them. Kraglin has to fight to stay on his feet; the glass is sticky with the residue of the drink and warm from Udonta’s hands, sliding in his grip. But he manages to retreat to the safety of the bar with minimal damage, receiving only a steel toecap to the shin along the way. There he leans next to Isla, and composes himself long enough to get the shot he’s snatched into his mouth rather than down his collar. 

“He actually did it,” Isla says. Her jangling eyebrows raise. “Guess we got a ship to clean.” 

_We._

Kraglin reaches for another tumbler. He fucking knew it. 

He can’t stay on the outskirts for long though. Drunk Ravagers are curious Ravagers, and if they still smack him about the ears when he tries to introduce himself, they do it while laughing. And they all seem united in their determination to get him catatonic. Kraglin’s well on his way already, his belly sloshing like a washing machine; it only gets worse once he’s drawn into the crowd of grubby leathers. 

If he ain’t fond of being the center of attention sober, he likes it less drunk. So it’s a surprise that the last real thing he remembers from that night is Varra barging him into Udonta’s side as they down their shots together, and Udonta almost pissing himself laughing when Kraglin has to wobble outside and spew them back up. 

He re-enters on shaky ankles, but forgets them as Figs grabs his hands and drags him into a crazy, knee-jerking dance, whirling round and round, faster and faster, her trenchcoat lifting behind her like a tatty black solar-wing. He’s spun about, crashed into a table top when Figs loses her balance, picked up and set on his feet like a fallen toy soldier. Their faces wobble like he’s viewing them through a dirty lens, and there seems to be two of everything. That or Ravagers multiply faster than a virus. 

They’re all around him, a horde of loud voices and tramping boots. His senses are saturated in leather and alcohol and sweat. Drink slops down his front. 

He’s got his arms around someone’s waist, and he’s not sure if he’s using them as a crutch or dancing with them. But there’s a strip of blue skin in front of him – he thinks it might be a neck. As it’s all he can focus on, Kraglin slumps his bodyweight forwards and treats it to a sloppy kiss. He feels the person stiffen, and fuzzily expects to be shoved away. But then there’s a gasp and he’s pulled in tighter. When they break apart he’s left a purple circle that’s shiny and pretty with spit, and an odd sensation of pride. 

After that it’s all shattered images, stitched in something that might be chronological order. 

Laughing so hard at a joke he only half remembers that he has to lean on the other guy so he doesn’t flop forwards on his face (and it is a guy, but Kraglin’s too far gone to give a shit, and let’s be honest, he ain’t the pickiest anyway). Feeling the other guy’s shoulders silently shaking too. A hand on his wrist, an insistent pull; the bartender lazily looking them up and down and slipping a keycard into his sweating palm. 

“Use protection,” he says dryly, but neither of them are listening. 

Kraglin is apocalyptically, anarchically drunk, of that degree where everything is hazy and happy and he knows he’s not going to remember any of it in the morning. Thus, technically, he supposes, he’s got a free pass to do whatever the fuck he wants. The slate’ll be wiped as soon as there’s light in the sky, right? And then it’s back to the life of Kraglin the underdog, hopping to with his trusty mop whenever a beacon flashes. 

But not this. Nah. This night is gonna be his. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **_Ooooooh shiiiiiiiiii-_**  
>   
> 
> **So, that just happened. Tune in next time for the morning after. Fret not, those who are looking for slow burn – sex doth not equal instant-relationship, and the boys still have a very (very) long way to go. Still, this gets the story moving a bit… Sex as a plot point, ftw!**
> 
>  
> 
> **Come check me out at write-like-an-american.tumblr.com. I’ve filled a few Kraglin/Yondu prompts already, and I’d love to write more!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> 


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sup folks~ I promised two chappies today, but I'm going out for a while so it might have to be tomorrow (or late this evening) instead. We'll see! Still, the next one's a long one~ :D**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **cw: use of ‘retarded’ as a slur.**
> 
>  
> 
> ****

If there were birds in space, they’d be singing.

Morning did not break through the portal. It encroached. Light was a creep of supergiant-blue, inching across the stew of leather pants, discarded bottles, dirty boots and dropped glass oddities that carpeted a bare metal floor. Its advance was synchronized to the satellite station as it swung about its axis. Outside, the early trade ships slid across space like silent glow worms over the roof of an unlit cave, paths crisscrossing and intersecting in a glittering tapestry. Inside however, everything was still. Everything was silent, barring the even snores. Light continued to fill the room horizontally, as if someone was pouring cerulean vodka in dodgy gravity; it drenched the leather trenchcoat dangling half-off the arm of the bedside chair, glided across the dull steel floor, and finally spilt over the sides of the circular blanket-filled bed-nest to thoroughly saturate its occupants. 

________________________________________ 

The glare’s blinding – quite literally. Or it would be, had it not been for the space station’s thoughtful inclusion of tinted glass for the sake of any guests stupid enough – or drunk enough, as in this case – to leave their shutters open before bed. The amount of photons pouring into the dingy little room is still more than enough to lance hot needles through Kraglin’s eyelids. 

Groaning, he gives the morning a one-fingered Xandarian salute. Then scratches at the drool caking the left side of his chin and rolls to press his face into his pillow and nurse his pounding skull, tasting nausea and unbrushed teeth. 

His pillow does not approve. 

At first, with a flash to his cell on Hrax, Kraglin assumes he’s getting shanked. Possibly disemboweled. It’s understandable. His nerves are hyperwired, as they always are post black-out binge, and the pointy thing jabbing him in the belly sure feels like it’s carving up his intestines. In the half-dazed horror of the still mostly-asleep, he waits for the sloppy slither of entrails hitting sheets. _Fuck,_ he thinks. _Fuuuuck. Ain’t been a Ravager two weeks and I’m already on someone’s hitlist._

His fears are averted soon enough. The stabs become punctuated, first with a growl, then by a rough rasp, like sandpaper drawn over iron, which eventually evolves into speech. 

“Gerroff.“ 

Speech in a very distinctive backwater Xandarian dialect. Kraglin might be as green as a Ravager gets; but even he knows that first mates demand a little more respect than, say, Morlug. He rolls off. Winces as his temples throb. 

“S’rry sir,” he slurs. Somehow though, his brain doesn’t quite catch up to his words. 

The knife is now revealed to be an elbow – blue; could’ve been a trick of the light, or Kraglin’s itchy hangover-eyes, but heck, what’s it matter, he don’t discriminate. Its retreat is followed by a distinct lack of Kraglin’s gory innards (for which he is inexpressibly relieved). There’s another grunt. Then a slide of dry skin as a leg disentangles from his. Kraglin hadn’t noticed it was there in the first place, but he idly scrubs a foot over where it rested, working the numbness from his calf. 

“What time’s it?” The other guy heaves himself along the rumpled mess of sheets in a half-plausible attempt at rising. He makes it halfway. Then flops onto his back with a defeated sigh. He doesn’t seem to expect an answer. Kraglin, twitching like a Taser victim as every vibration of the mattress judders through him, is left to massage his tender crown in the hopes of coaxing out a comprehensible thought. Not that thinking’s the easiest when your brain’s being wrung by the bones of your skull like a sopping scrub-sponge. Any attempts to dredge up the memories of last night result in ringing ears and a reminder that all he has in his stomach is alcohol. 

Alcohol and… 

Kraglin blinks and licks his lips. 

Huh. 

Musta liked the guy. Or he’d been too drunk to give a shit. Least he hadn’t gotten fucked – damn, but if Morlug found out about that, he’d be a laughing stock for weeks. 

Nah. This is okay. Bit sticky, bit grimy, but okay. The ache in his jaw ain’t nothing compared to the one percolating in from behind his eyes, and his stomach-muscles have that pleasant laxness that comes after a damn good orgasm. A fortnight’s a long dry spell for a young adult Hraxian (Okay, teenaged, but only just!) Kraglin figures he shouldn’t complain. He’s comfy – comfier than he’s been in memory. There’s a mattress under him that ain’t made of lumpy springs, and the blue light washes everything in watercolor. 

Five more minutes – maybe ten; fifteen maximum. Then he’ll go make sure Isla hasn’t blasted off without him. 

He scratches the drool-patch again, stretching. Then drapes a sinewy bicep over his eyes to ward off the godforsaken glare, and smiles. Apparently, he’d had a good night. 

It’s around this time that he realizes the silence from the other side of the bed has become… well, a bit ominous. 

Silence – noise: the lack thereof. It’s a funny thing. An absence, an abscess of words. And yet it can say so much. Kraglin’s heard his fair share. He can differentiate between comfortable, bored, tense, and relaxed; can read the nuances of whatever situation he finds himself dropped into. Adaptability and gut instinct. Good fucking traits for a petty-pickpocket-come-conman; excellent traits for a Ravager. 

This particular silence has the hairs curling on his shins. 

He snuffles a comforting nose-full of armpit guff. Then slowly unwinds his arm from around his face, and peeks out from under it. 

Not a trick of the light. Nope. Definitely blue. Definitely… Fuck. 

Kraglin’s throat works around a dry swallow. 

Blue. Red-eyed. Red-implanted. Bandage over the new bullet scar on his side. Crooked teeth capped with an assortment of metals, all of which are currently bared in a confused grimace as _Yondu fucking Udonta_ kneels on the bed next to him, naked as the day he’d been fucking born, and reaches behind himself to probe experimentally at his ass. 

“Ow, fuck! Why the fuck’s my –“ 

His voice trails off. Realization dawns. It’s a truly harmonic moment, marked by Udonta’s narrowing eyes and Kraglin’s rapidly widening ones. 

Shit. _Shit, shit, shit…_

Perhaps it would’ve been better to have been shanked, after all. At least he’d’ve died quick-like. 

“Uh,” says Kraglin. The silence is withering. “Sorry…?” Udonta’s flat mouth clenches into a full-on scowl. Then – oddly – purses. Kraglin has a moment to be confused before Udonta whistles. 

The arrow hovering in front of his face burns brighter than the supergiant suspended in the aether beyond the porthole glass. Possibly because its tip is approximately five centimeters from his eyeball. 

Migraine thrumming, Kraglin struggles up and away, shoulders thumping on the headboard of the circular nest. As if distance is gonna make one bit of fuckin’ difference. He lifts his hands in universal appeasement as the arrow follows. The whistle doesn’t waver. Not for one second. “Right! Right, gotcha! Nothing happened; nothing at all, not one thing to be sorry for, nope. I was never here, you was never here - or if I was here, _you_ fucked _me_! You fucked me so good I can’t fucking walk back to ship; in fact, heck, why don’t you just leave me here on this station and I’ll pick up another crew heading to the ass-end of the galaxy –“ Very poor choice of words. “- And I’ll never, ever speak of this, ever again. I swear!” 

The arrowtip surges closer. Kraglin, head slammed back as far as it can get without busting through the space station’s flank, is too terrified to do anything other than stare at it in the vain hope that it might be more amenable to pleas for mercy than its master. “You think we’re bartering, boy?” Udonta grates. Kraglin’s shoulders twitch in a desperate shrug. “No. You’re trying to think of one good reason why I don’t take the easy way out.” What exactly ‘the easy way out’ entails, is enunciated as the arrow makes another menacing thrust. Kraglin, nails biting into his upraised palms, whimpers. 

What the hell kinda a weapon is that anyway? He’s never heard of a Kree battalion breaking out into whistles. 

Udonta scoffs and lurches off the bed. He refuses to wince – and while Kraglin doesn’t remember much of last night, he doesn’t remember stowing no lube in his jacket pocket neither. Which, coming to think of it, _ow._ He rubs his knees together. Friction burn where friction burn ain’t meant to be. 

If Udonta’s face is a little too stoic though, heck, Kraglin ain’t gonna call him out. The Kree bends at the knees, huffing loudly between his teeth in something that _could’ve_ been aggravation, and grabs the first set of pants he finds. They’re Kraglin’s. He’s debating whether pointing this out will be the last thing he does, when Udonta notices, swears, and lobs them in his general direction. The aim’s off. Kraglin’s sure they’ll go sailing by – but at the last second the goddam belt flicks out, nicking the arrow right on its fletching. Kraglin’s neck-crikking jerk is the only thing that saves eyesight and pre-frontal cortex alike, as the arrow buries itself in the headboard next to his ear. 

“Whoops,” said Udonta, not sounding especially sorry. He picks up a small figurine – where the heck’d that come from? – and rubs dust from its belly with a grimy blue finger. “You can pay for that.” 

Kraglin hasn’t yet been paid period. His bank account’s dryer than a Morag desert. 

But there’s more pressing concerns – his pulse thunders loud enough to give him tinnitus, and the adrenaline coursing through his petrified body must be seconds away from bringing about full cardiac arrest. Still, the arrow’s lodged somewhere other than his skull. Some bright side, given Udonta – First Mate Yondu Udonta, fuck – can whistle it there at any time. But any relief is worth something. Throat contracting around dry tonsils, Kraglin tries to muster the spittle to talk without sounding like a sand-filled engine. 

“Sure. Sure, anything.” He’ll promise to buy the whole fucking galaxy. The next glance Udonta tosses him is not so much livid as disdainful. 

“And yer a fucking coward.” Udonta stomps another paperweight as he struggles to get his second boot on; it crunches under his heel, and he bursts into a violent spiel of clicks that Kraglin’s translator can make neither head nor tail of. Vocabulary re-emerges at around the same time that Udonta yanks fiercely on the bootstraps and forces his toes into place with an audible thunk. “The hell was I thinking? Scrawny lil’ bottomfeeder like you.” He gives Kraglin a once-over, the closest he’s looked at him since this whole fucking mess began, and groans. “Thanos’s ballsack. You ain’t legal. I fucked a fucking kid. A kid who ain’t never used his dick before. Kill me now.” 

Indignant, Kraglin shoulders himself up the headboard and crosses his arms. “Oi, I’m nearly twenty! And ya obviously didn’t mind my dick last night!” 

The arrow rips from the bedframe with a skin-crawling screech, and introduces its sizzling aura to his nose. 

It’s like sunburn. Bad sunburn, the peel’n’congeal variety. But Kraglin doesn’t have no shade to escape to. He grits his teeth and tries to stare past the quasar-bright glow, to fix his watery vision on the blue figure beyond. “You really gonna kill me over this?” he asks, feigning bravado where he’s got no more to give. “What, the chance I’m dumb enough to go blabbing _I fucked Yondu Udonta_ to the Xandarian Daily Times?” 

The shudder that passes through the arrow informs him that possibly, just possibly, acknowledging the nature of the crime isn’t the best approach to paying penance. Udonta proves him right, picking up the second figurine and scowling at its broken arm before pushing it into his pocket with surprising care. 

“You _thinking_ that thought’s not helping your cause none, kid.” 

Kraglin shrinks. “Aw, c’mon…” 

“I’ve yet t’hear a good reason why I oughta let you live.” 

Kraglin racks his brains; turns up blank after blank. Why should Udonta show him any sort of leniency? He’s a nobody. A Hraxian greenie they picked up from a refill station, who left his homeplanet for undisclosed reasons (a better-sounding way of saying ‘fenced some fake shit, shot a cartel boss’s trophy wife accidental-like’). He’d only taken the Ravager reds because his junkship had coughed up its last, and it was a better alternative to being lynched by mob goons. Nope, Kraglin’s a man of precisely two talents – cutting good deals at markets, which is useful, and aggravating big fish in progressively bigger ponds, which is less so. 

Sure, he’s virtually mastered that special wrist-twist that severs spines from cerebral vertebrae, so you can yank it out of a neck to the lumbar. But while that old Hraxian trick is flashy, and makes for good showmanship, it ain’t much use for practical scuffling. Kraglin’s not powerful enough or important enough to need to leave messages of that sort. Udonta… is. 

“I can do that funky thing with the spines –“ 

Udonta, not expecting an answer, looks taken aback for the slightest of seconds. Then he yanks his shirt collar over his implant, rolling the material over his scarred chest and that weird second flap of skin on his belly – since when are Kree marsupial? – and snorts out a laugh. 

“Yeah? Skinny little asshole like you?” 

Kraglin’s tempted to point out that, while on the svelte side, he’s a damn sight taller than Udonta. Kraglin’s also not wholly devoid of common sense. 

“Yeah,” he answers, in hope. It’s dashed when Udonta shrugs, stooping to fish for his trenchcoat. 

“Good for you. Shame I got ‘bout sixty other Hraxians in the fleet who can do the same.” Kraglin winces. That’s the problem, being one of the galactic species listed in the Nova encyclopedias as ‘common’. 

“Alright – alright,” he says. “Look, you got me. I ain’t all that special. I can’t whistle for arrows or, or turn invisible or teleport or whatever other magical shit might be of use to you. I’m just another gun, right? Cannon fodder.” 

“At least you ain’t retarded,” Udonta says. 

Kraglin wets his lips. “So really, there's nothing stoppin’ ya from shooting me. ‘Cept you.” 

At that, Udonta’s face darkens so rapidly it could’ve been mistaken for an oncoming cosmic storm. Still, Kraglin’s just insinuated that he’s holding back, and he hasn’t been impaled yet. Kneeling, he spreads his arms in a lanky crucifix. He tips his head back; the stipple of radioactive heat transfers to the tender skin of his neck. Needles jab his voicebox. He croaks out the next words on willpower alone – “So, if you’re gonna do it... For fuck’s sake, get on with it already.” 

There’s an endless silence. Face tilted at the ceiling, it drags into a blind eternity, Kraglin’s unable to gauge Udonta’s reaction. He can, however, interpret the soft click as Udonta’s arrow holster settles over his hip, then the whistle as the first mate calls the blazing instrument into it. 

“Not one word,” Udonta warns. He taps his arrow twice to hammer the point home. 

Kraglin, arms trembling, bites his tongue and nods. But not before sending out a silent prayer of gratitude. Someone up there must be looking out for him. Udonta on the other hand, now that he’s made their stances clear, isn’t inclined to hang around. Swinging his coat over his broad back, he checks the bag of credit-chips tied to the inner lining – as if Kraglin’d be dumb enough to rob him – grunts to himself, and promptly marches out. Not a glance, before the door whooshes shut. 

Kraglin waits a whole minute before letting his hands flop onto his lap. They fall heavier than anvils. His breath is coming in shaky bursts, and his headache has amped to the point he suspects it’s prepping to supernova. An inch from his ear, the gouge sliced by the arrow stands out in the blue light like an unstitched scar. 

“Fuck,” whispers Kraglin, drooping until his forehead kisses the blankets. “Fuck, fuck, fuck, double fuck…” 

Then remembers that once the Ravager shuttle has first mate on board it’s got no more reason to hang around in dock, and scrambles for his pants. 

________________________________________ 

True to Isla’s word, his wristband doesn’t buzz for the rest of the day-cycle. 

Kraglin makes it to the shuttle only a minute before Isla and Figs stumble on board and Thrabba punches in the decoupling sequence. Varra shoots him a dirty look when he first totters up the ramp, but a subtle insertion of Figs’ bootcap into his shin prevents any comment. If anyone else was sober enough to notice him and Udonta sneaking off, they keep it to themselves. Kraglin is glad. With only a shell between them and gristly death via depressurization, one misfired arrow could kill them all. 

He sits beside the M-ship’s rear window, legs tucked under him as he memorizes the name of yet another station that he can never return to (having tossed the key into a waste duct and abandoned the room before the barman could assess the damages). It’s a ten-minute trip to the _Eclector_ ’s docking bay. Those ten minutes are infinitely lengthened by the fact that Udonta’s nursing his hangover opposite and making an artform out of pretending he doesn’t exist. Speaking of Udonta, and arrows… That’s one weird fucking weapon. He’s too scared of its owner to study the tip sticking out the flap of Udonta’s coat, so he spends the journey counting the seconds, rubbing his burnt throat, and contemplating how he’s going to avoid the man for another fucking month. And listening to Isla puking, but they all have to suffer through that. 

He’s still berating himself for his stupidity when the shuttle wobbles through the hangar entrance and magnetizes into dock with a bone-rattling clank. Once the _Eclector’_ s atmosphere-preserving forcefield has reformed, Thrabba shoves the hatch open, his gait impossibly less linear than his flightpath, and ushers them out. Isla’s busy using Udonta’s arm as a stress-ball; Kraglin takes the opportunity and makes a dash for the cold red gleam of the galleon’s interior. 

_Safe,_ he thinks. Then: _home._

Fuck. When did that happen? 

It must be the alcohol, he tells himself, as he staggers to a greenlit lift and fumbles out the code that’ll take him to Level C. The same alcohol that made him think it’s be an excellent idea to fuck a superior officer who can kill him with a whistle, and who may or may not be plotting a fucking mutiny. 

And who’s twice his age. Fuck. 

That is, decides Kraglin miserably, stumbling along the corridor and presenting his middle finger to anyone who laughs, the story of his fucking life. One catastrophe after another. Most fueled by spirits, peer pressure, or general recklessness. He’s on a downwards spiral, and can feel himself sinking further with every stupid-ass decision that pops into his head. If he doesn’t get his act together, he’ll never get the chance to tell Morlug his name. 

And to top it all off, his head aches. Damn it. He’s never drinking again. 

He leans on the dormitory door until it falls open, then drags himself to the far bunk stack, toeing off his boots and tying the laces so they dangle on either side of his neck before starting the climb. He almost nods off halfway – but is urged on by growl from the bunk below, for him to _stop fuckin’ creakin’ about and go the fuck t’sleep._

That’s one order he’ll willingly obey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **CONVENIENT CROTCH-SHADOW FTW**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Hope the tense-change isn’t too confusing. I think past tense works well for establishing atmosphere in present-tense fics, if used very, _very_ sparingly. But I’m not wholly convinced that this is one of those times. I can always change it if it doesn't work! **
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Also - I've filled quite a few one-shot prompts over at write-like-an-american.tumblr.com**
> 
>  
> 
> **If you fancy more little Ravagers snippets, that's the place to look! x**
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin tries his hand at butchery.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Another mega-chapter, to really get the plot ticking over.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **cw: character death, serious gore**
> 
>  
> 
> ****

Kraglin’s lying awake a fortnight later, dreaming of home and listening to the rumblings of the greasy kid above him’s digestive tract. He’s got notches chipped into the post of his bed – Kraglin’s always been a knife guy, and his collection’s only grown what with the events of recent weeks. He has, at Morlug’s prompting, started to sew them into the lining of his clothes – skills with a needle are pretty much a requirement in this field; if you don’t suck it up and patch your gear you wind up threadbare. Kraglin has, with a little guidance, swiftly become a master. His fingers are just the right side of delicate, and he can thread a needle first time, every time. The knife pouches are made from scraps from the spare uniform vat outside the quartermaster’s stores; he’d begged and scrounged enough thread for three, and lifted the rest.

Not from his fellow Ravagers of course. There ain’t many rules on this ship – none at all, really, except ‘do what you’re told’ and ‘don’t piss the wrong person off’. But there’s always the Code, muttering away at the back of his mind: _Steal from everyone. Except each other._

At the moment he’s training himself to sleep without getting pricked somewhere painful. And to remember where they all are before he strips down to shower. As it turns out, having a blade of A’askvarian steel slip out of your sleeve and impale your toe hurts like fuck, and will result in the ship’s doctor rolling his eyes, Isla laughing her metal-studded ass off, and precisely zero sympathy. 

But whatever. Kraglin’s improving. He can hit targets from one hundred yards, so long as they ain’t bouncing about too much. Morlug’s started dragging him up to the simulation pods to train on their off-shits. (Kraglin, who had entertained the hope that ‘train’ was a delicate euphemism, had been proved wrong most succinctly by the fist that introduced itself to his nose the moment the door clanged shut). He hasn’t been scheduled for job duty yet, and he wants to make the most of the extra time to practice so that he doesn’t get offed the moment he sets foot in the field. The delay’s a relief, in a way – but only a superficial one. Because while his chances of dying are reduced significantly when he’s behind the _Eclector_ ’s shields, he knows there’s no escaping it forever. He’ll be called on any day now. Somehow, the wait is worse than the actual thing. 

Kraglin hates waiting. 

The notches on his bedpost mark out the day-cycles, a longer stroke every seven. He’s counting down – until he can desert, he tells himself, although he suspects it’s more for when he can start demanding to be called by his actual name. Because he does have one of those, damn it. Hell, as soon as that day arrives, that fourth stroke of seven, Kraglin’s sprinting to the comms rig and broadcasting out across the fleet: _my name is Kraglin Obfonteri, and I’m pleased to fuckin’ meet you._

He’s musing this through, hands clasped behind his head and socked feet propped over the bunk’s end-rail, when his wristpiece starts to flash. No noise. That’s odd. 

Kraglin’s tempted to call it a fluke, seeing as he’s off-duty. But he ain’t sleeping – and, you never know, this could be Isla changing her mind about that whole not-fucking-each-other thing. Heaven knows, he needs to sleep with someone other than Udonta before jumping ship. It’s a matter of pride. 

He rolls onto his belly, burying the winking screen under his quilt before it wakes his bunkmates, and squints painfully at the lit-up name. 

Huh. It’s Figs. That’s unexpected. 

He taps it once to answer, minimizing the volume, and presses it to his ear. “Whassup?” 

“Need a hand,” says Figs shortly. She sounds hoarse. Like she’s been crying – although that’s ridiculous, because Figs is as brutal as her diet is fibrous, and tougher than old boot soles. Probably been bawling someone out, then. “No questions asked.” 

“When did I become the guy who people trust with secrets?” Kraglin complains – after checking to make sure no one’s eavesdropping. Figs doesn’t laugh. 

“Just get here,” she says. “I’m sending the location now.” His map pops up without prompting, dazzling him – the holographic fin of an engine slices his chin. Kraglin rubs bright specks from his eyes and locates the beacon, down in the M-ship hangar. 

He’s being called to the M-ship dock. In the middle of the night-cycle. 

And as far as he knows, they’re not due any operatives back until Udonta’s next job’s complete – which he doesn’t want to think about right now, if only because it’s due to make his life a whole lot harder. No. Something’s happening, and Kraglin doesn’t want to walk into it blind. 

“Figs?” he asks. “What’s going on?” 

There’s no answer. Then – “Varra’s dead.” 

Kraglin hisses air through his teeth. “Shit. I’ll – I’ll be there. Right there. Give me a sec.” 

“You’re gonna need a mop,” Figs tells him, blunt as always. Kraglin’s throat clamps shut. He ain’t squeamish or nothing. But he’s never had to sponge someone off the floor of a shuttle dock before, neither. 

Fuck though. Varra. What the fuck’s happening? 

He tumbles out of bed, ignoring the cussing and dodging the hail of boots. Varra. Big ol’ Varra. Varra the friendly fucking giant. Dead. 

Heck, Kraglin hardly knew him. Not really. He’s only been on board three weeks, after all. But he’d seemed a decent guy; as decent as they came, out here. Sure, he’d been a bit… distant, after the party (although Kraglin doesn’t blame him, given that he can’t recall how much of a show he and Udonta put on). But things had swiftly returned to normal. Heck, he’d even switched his schedule to eat dinner with him on his break, not two day-cycles since. 

And as for Figs… 

He wonders how long she and Varra have shared that bunk stack. He wonders how long it’ll remain empty before they find some new rookie to fill it. 

But that only leads to wondering about who’d slept in his cot before him, and _that_ to who’d worn his boots and shouldered his jacket and stitched the lighter patch over the frayed knee of his pants, and who had wrapped rubber grips around the set of hand-crafted knives Morlug’d picked up for him from the Quartermaster. When a Ravager dies, they’re subsumed into the ship. Cannibalized. Literally, if canteen’s short on proteins. But it’s the property distribution that makes Kraglin queasy, rather than what they do with the bodies; there ain’t much sense in sending ripe meat out into the aether when it’s of no use to its owner, after all. 

Soon as the corpse’s been stripped and the Quartermaster’s taken his pick, everything’s fair game. The clusters of personal effects that’re stowed in lockers at the far end of the dorms get ransacked first. Their contents are parceled off to whoever bids most for ‘em. Hidden bottles of moonshine are cracked open and raised in toast. Accessories get slipped up sleeves and into pockets. Gold teeth and cybernetics are pried out, and will rattle around some lucky scavenger’s pocket until they make it to the next port and sell them on to the jewelers and the black marketeers. 

Kraglin drags his jacket on, stifling a yawn. All that a person is, is what they leave behind. And when you’re part of a crew, what you leave gets divided, tallied up, and funneled off to furnish a hundred greedy hands. Everyone here’s a patchwork person, himself included. Stitched together from hand-me-downs and things less honestly acquired. He’d like to pretend it’s a way to remember the dead, but he knows that’s just naivete talking. It’s pragmatism, raw and simple. 

Dead men tell no tales, and wear no boots neither. 

His own creak over the grill panels. He pauses to buffer the door, passing his hand slowly over the closing mechanism so that it squeaks to a close rather than slamming. Will he get first dibs, if he’s on clean up? The thought’s a little sickening, but Kraglin steals himself to it – you wanna survive as a Ravager, you gotta act like one. And surviving’s what he intends on doing. 

Kraglin knocks on a wall panel, then boots it the way Morlug’s taught him when it doesn’t spring open on demand. Heel inserted into hinge, _just_ the right amount of pressure… Success. The slot pops. Kraglin fishes about until he locates a generic stack of cleaning equipment. He selects a mop, a brush, a pan and a bucket. 

Then thinks of how big Varra is. Two buckets. 

By the time he emerges, he looks more like a travelling tinker than a space pirate. His trudge to the lifts is solemn, the only funeral march Kraglin can afford to give. The effect’s thrown by the buckets clanking on his arms; but Kraglin imagines they’re drum beats, the heavy rattle of snares that accompanies the Nova Corps on their annual parade in memory of those lost in the Kree war. He waddles to the cage lift. The shaft gapes fathomlessly, ribbed with dim lights and blurry red depth markers. Kraglin mashes the button for the hangar level with his mop handle. 

What could have taken Varra down, anyway? Plasma blast’s most likely; they don’t take size into account when they’re chewing through you. If you’re an unlucky enough biotic to get in one’s way, they’ll keep gnawing until their energy’s drained or they come out the other side. But if Varra was with Udonta when he got himself shot, why’s Udonta lugged the carcass back to ship? It can’t be for the pleasure of making Kraglin clean it up… can it? 

The lift chugs down, towards the artificial gravity generators situated on the Eclector’s designated ‘underside’. It’s an ugly contraption but a functional one, a wire box suspended on five long chains. There’s one at each corner and one in the center. Each is lashed to a loop as thick as Kraglin’s thigh. The chains themselves are deceptively skinny, forged from some hyper-mobile Skrull metal that’s easy to cast and not likely to break. They wrap around a system of pulleys, attached in turn to massive, ancient cogs, which grind each other slowly to dust and every so often let a chain slip free and go snapping up to butcher anyone dumb enough to stick their heads into the open shaft above. 

By the time he reaches ground level, the buckets have dug grooves into his forearms and his left foot’s jigging like he’s having some kind of fit. Kraglin heaves the mop into a more stable position, and pushes the door open before the lift has groaned to a halt. 

“Figs?” he calls. He can’t exactly reach his wrist to activate the comm, and all these hangars look pretty much the same. “Figs? You around?” 

“Don’t shout, you fucking doorknob.” 

There she is – waving at him from the third hangar along. This part of the ship’s as spacious as the rest is cramped. Their voices echo off the walls and meet in the middle, harmonics twisting until they’re all but indistinguishable from one another. The corridor’s a wormhole of translucent pipes, crimped every ten paces by a fat rubber lip that circumferences the tunnel and trips the unwary. There’s no light panels down here. Only the flares from the engines: channeled through the tubes in bright, pulsing surges. Kraglin could walk without a stoop in his shoulders – but he’s become so used to ducking under doorframes that he hunches on instinct. He clacks carefully over to Figs, elbows out in the hopes she’ll notice his plight and offer to relieve him of at least one of the buckets. She just looks him over and nods. 

“That should be enough. There’s a fire faucet on the dock, and I’ve got solvents on my ship if you need ‘em. Hurry it up though. I’ve cleared the hangar, but we gotta get him out before the next shift starts.” That’s in seventy minutes. Kraglin balks and picks up his pace, stepping into the sprawling, M-ship-cluttered dock. Then slows. Then stops completely. 

“He’s, uh. He’s very. Whole.” 

Figs shoots him an exasperated look. “And?” 

It wasn’t a plasma rifle, that’s for sure. Those tend to leave a lot more… splat. Whatever’s offed Varra, is done so very quickly and cleanly. Even been kind enough to cauterize the hole on the way out. But it ain’t Kraglin’s place to comment on that. He dumps the buckets off, breathing through his nose and avoiding looking at the trickle of sizzled brain-matter that’s dripping into Varra’s eye-socket. 

“I’m gonna have a hard time shifting him subtle-like, that’s all,” he says. Figs groans, stamps over and rips his jacket open – ignoring Kraglin’s squeak. She pulls out his favorite knife, the one he keeps over his heart. 

“Well, why don’t you do something about it?” 

The blade waggles in his face. Right. Butchering the first guy on board who’d spared him a decent word. No problemo. He can do this. 

Kraglin takes the knife, wrapping fingers around the hilt that have already begun to sweat. He kneels besides the corpse. It’s eerie, seeing the big lug laid out like this. All pale and clammy as a wax replica. He’s cold and stiff in his leathers, and there’s a grey tint emerging from around his ears, spreading across the bridge of his nose. The backs of his hands are mottled purple. Kraglin shudders. If petrification is setting in this soon, he must’ve been doing some damn heavy lifting before he acquired his extra breathing hole. Which reintroduces the question – what exactly is he seeing here? A nasty, incriminating accident? Murder? 

And where the hell’s Udonta, anyway? 

That’s definitely his M-ship. It’s above them, dangling in its harness like an ugly orange chandelier. Isla had made him make good on her promise: after the Party Which Will Never Be Spoken Of Again he’d been over the damn thing with wire-toothed comb, thankfully, while Udonta was busy reporting to the captain (or doing whatever else it was first mates got up to when they weren’t stealing objects of considerable wealth and destructive ability and threatening Hraxian rookies with remote-controlled radioactive arrows). He knows the damn thing inside out. 

The scrubbing had been a process as bewildering as it had been informative. Apparently, Udonta is messier than your average Ravager – an impressive feat – but manages to maintain a spotless collection of glass novelties on his control panel, and has several more tucked away in cupboards or under consoles. Kraglin’s slow progress had been observed by a thousand beady little eyes. How Udonta flies straight under their constant supervision, he has no idea. (Judging by the amount of dents pitting the M-ship’s exterior, Udonta doesn’t either.) 

“So d’you, uh, want the coat?” he asks Figs. Because it’s damn good leather and there’s little enough of that going around. Figs fishes out a knife of her own – a fucking kukri, as long as her entire fucking arm; where she’s been stowing it is anyone’s guess. Then she looks him in the eye, and slits Varra open from chin to belly, jacket and all. 

Okay. No salvage. Kraglin’s glad – it’s awkward enough wrestling clothes off normal cadavers once rigor mortis has set in, let alone when said cadavers are over seven foot tall and muscled like a titan on steroids. Plus, he likes to think it gives Varra a little more dignity. Although it’s rapidly proven that dignity don’t much factor when you’re being sliced small enough to be fit into two buckets. 

Kraglin sits back on his heels, stained to the elbows with the contents of Varra’s large intestine, and looks despairingly at the overflowing vessels. 

“This ain't gonna work.” 

Isla would’ve called him a pessimist and kept right on shoveling. Morlug would’ve assessed the buckets, come to the same conclusion, proceeded to panic and, in attempting to hide her panic, panicked more. Varra… Varra would’ve made a joke. Something about how at least they’d be able to entertain each other, once they’ve been thrown in the brig and left to rot. 

Figs just nods, and goes to find another bucket. 

There’s cleaning equipment stowed in the hangar – of course there is, Kraglin’s stupid for not thinking of it before. But he can’t identify the wall hatches by sight like Morlug can, and he’s too embarrassed to ask how to bring up the respective map beacons. Figs returns, dragging an empty wheelie-bin, and proceeds to scoop handfuls of meat and tattered leather. The bones’re harder to cut through – Kraglin really has to saw. His knife’s already blunt along one edge. He knows better than to ask if Figs is going to pay for a new one. 

It’s the smell they don’t tell you about. Not that Kraglin’s ever attended a lecture on Dicing Up Dead Bodies 101, but nevertheless. He’s smelt rot and he’s smelt guts, but he’s always been able to walk away. This… this is smothering. Blood and fluid and fecal matter, all cold and pungent, semi-congealed in death. He’s choking on it. Gagging almost. But the knowledge that if he chunders it’ll just be one more thing for him to clean keeps his lunch where it’s supposed to be. He lifts Varra’s head, gentler than is necessary, and scrapes gunky grey-matter of the chrome plaque beneath. 

That wound is very, very neat. Neat enough to come from – say, an arrow? 

Kraglin swallows, tasting acid. “Hey Figs. What am I looking at?” 

“I said no questions.” Figs concentrates on lifting Varra’s liver – a floppy black sack which, from the way she’s straining, must weigh a good ten kilograms. It sails into the bin and lands with a resounding squelch. Kraglin winces, and returns to Varra’s half-dissected femur. 

“We could do with a saw, y’know. Else this is going to take forever.” Figs hums in agreement. The blood splattered up one side of her chin makes her look more manic than ever, clotting between the green frills. She rises, shaking drops from her fingertips, and vanishes into Udonta’s ship. Kraglin works silently while she’s gone. He makes an effort to stop his gaze returning to that neat, penny-sized hole, but it’s not overly effective. 

_Not your business_ , he tells himself, when he catches his eyes wandering for the fourth time. _You’ve got what, another three weeks, before you’ll be far enough from Hrax to buy a new identity and make your own way. Think of the retirement bungalow. Don’t get dragged into this._

But Varra’s dead. Varra’s very dead, and by Udonta’s hand – or whistle, at least. And the last time Kraglin saw them together, they had their arms linked at the elbow as they knocked back a shot. It… it doesn’t add up. 

“So where’s Udonta?” he asks as Figs returns, a massive Kree melee weapon hefted over her shoulder. It’s got a toothed underside, and looks like it’d crack a thigh bone if dropped on it – good enough, he supposes, for the task at hand. Figs slants her eyes at him. 

“Seeing Captain,” she says. Her voice is more clipped than usual, all consonant. “You ain’t all that great at this not-asking-questions shtick, are you.” 

_Usually I am,_ Kraglin wants to say. _But usually, I don’t accidentally fuck folks who murder their best friends._ That seems like a very good way to get on both Figs’ and Udonta’s bad sides though, and hell, after seeing this, that’s the last thing he wants. He settles for – “Just curious. And I keep most shit to myself, anyway.” 

Figs sniffs in disbelief. “I shoulda bet on a week rather than a month. Fuck, greenie, how’d ya make it this far?” 

Admitting that he asks himself the same question as he lays awake in his bunk would be far too telling. Kraglin wipes blood off his nose. Unfortunately, the sleeve he selects for this purpose is messier than the target, and all he achieves is a smear of coppery warpaint. “You start on his legs,” he says, shifting to give Figs access. “I’ll get his head off.” 

“Fuck it up a bit first,” Figs orders. “He got sucked into the M-ship engine, remember.” 

“Did he.” 

Kraglin’s voice is flat. But Figs’s stare is flatter, and as cold as the void outside. “You were there,” she says. “You should know.” 

Of course he fucking was. 

She scoots her kukri over. When a quick examination of his own blade proves it to be well and truly dulled – a tragedy as great as the one leaking blood over his boots – Kraglin tosses it to skitter down the dock and accepts her offering. He sets the point against Varra’s cheek. It slices into the tightened muscle before he’s applied any pressure. Kraglin tries not to think too hard about what he’s about to do. 

_Sorry mate_ , he projects to Varra, wherever his spirit might be. And pushes the knife down. 

________________________________________ 

They finish with five minutes to spare. Kraglin helps Figs unreel a fire hose, which lowers from the ceiling when she taps an order into her wristpiece, and scours the last remains of Varra from the dock with a squirt of pressurized foam. They empty the buckets into the bin, stack the rest of the grotty cleaning equipment, and wheel off to find an airlock. Figs doesn’t hang about to watch as the evidence gushes out into the abyss, shrinking to a pinprick in under a second. But Kraglin strains at the porthole until not even his imagination can pretend that he can identify the bloody bin that they’ve sent spinning across the stars. 

“Now what?” he calls after Figs’ retreating back. Her boots plod to a halt. There’s a shuddering sigh. 

“Now you go find Udonta and work on your fucking cover story.” 

Kraglin is struck by the certainty, not for the first time, that the universe is steadily stacking its cards against him. “Do I have to?” he asks. It’s not a whinge. Not quite. 

The look Figs shoots him withers any resistance. “Yeah,” she says. “This is your fault, after all.” 

Kraglin blinks. This is news to him. “I didn’t shoot him.” 

“You might as well have done.” There’s tension in her scaly brows, he notices. More lines around her mouth. Figs ain’t got enough Skrull in her to shapeshift, but stress ages her like nothing else, until her hide’s had enough rest to re-elasticate. Right now, she looks as wizened and ancient as he’s ever seen her. Kraglin, oddly, doesn’t feel his usual fight-or-flight response kick in when faced with her accusation. Only confusion – and a vague sense of pity. 

Figs sighs again. It’s the tiredest sound he’s ever heard. “I’m going to bed,” she mutters. 

Kraglin pictures Varra’s bunk, abandoned with his unwashed quilt bundled airlessly in the far corner, and closes his eyes. Apologizing is pointless. He didn’t have anything to do with Varra’s death – if anyone, Figs is the one who got him involved. She’s only looking for a blank face to blame. He don’t mind being that for her, so long as it doesn’t land him extra scrub shifts, or gory vengeance and the suchlike. 

Well, there’s no hope of chasing sleep now. And anyway, he’s got a witness statement to prep. Kraglin bids goodbye to the rest of his night cycle and heads to find Udonta. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sorry about Varra. I hope you didn't like him too much...**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **So, things are heating up for the boys! Hope I've left this on a big enough cliffhanger to get y'all hungry for Wednesday.**
> 
>  
> 
> **And (in case any of you don't know by now) you can prompt me for anything related to GOTG and find a bunch of Ravagers oneshots over on my tumblr: write-like-an-american.tumblr.com. Thanks for reading; drop a comment if you enjoyed! xxx**
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> 


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Jora stomps on stuff, Kraglin gets punched in the face, and mutinous plots may be afoot.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **I'm super-busy this week, so I'm afraid this just... hasn't been edited. :sobs: I might not be able to get a chapter up on Saturday, but I'll at least give this one a thorough go-over by then!**

The door to the Bridge shunts open and a body shunts out, nearly bowling Kraglin over. Kraglin dodges, arm scratching on a hidden knife-tip, and grabs the person by their elbows so they don’t smack into the wall. They wrench out of his grip. He makes sense of a garbled “Stay outta there, greenie, if you wanna live!” – then they’re off and away, scrambling for the safety of the lift.

Kraglin gapes after them. “Huh,” he says. 

The door eases shut gradually. Kraglin pads closer, jabbing in a toe to prevent it from locking on. Then regrets it, as something shatters on the opposite side, and he jumps high enough to smack his skull on the frame. “Owfuck.” Luckily, his exclamation is drowned by a woman’s bellow: 

“The fuck were you thinking, boy? Taking on the Nova Corps? If your bounty gets any higher, I’ll drop you off at the Kyln myself!” Kraglin shivers in his boots. That must be the captain – a voice that good at projecting itself can only belong to someone of comparable authority. 

“Not like I had a choice, was it?” rages the target of her wrath. Kraglin, if possible, shrinks further. Udonta. “Perhaps if Dagada the goddam _Detonator_ had given me some _good fuckin’ intel_ for a change, I wouldn’ta had to fight my way out!” A pause. “And don’t call me boy!” 

“Don’t you go blaming this on Dagada!” There’s another tinkling smash, followed by a dangerous rumble from Udonta. Kraglin, not sure who he’s supposed to be more afraid of, settles for being terrified of both. “You failed the mission, Udonta!” the captain continues. “You dropped the artifact in the middle of a Nova barracks! And then ya killed half of 'em and led the other half straight to us! Y’know we don’t mess with the Empires! The fuck’s the matter with you?” 

Udonta’s repartee comes without a second’s reprieve – “That I trusted Dagada enough not to send me straight into a fuckin' ambush, that’s what! It was a set up, Jora. They knew we was coming for it.” His voice drops a register, still hoarse but quick and earnest. “Fuck, can’t ya see? Dagada’s after your favor. That’s what this is. You know it too – he’s always had his eye for the captaincy, and now you’re getting closer to kickin’ it –“ 

The smashes increase so much in frequency and violence that they cut Udonta off mid-flow. 

Kraglin has to cover his ears. When the cacophony ceases, Udonta makes a noise in the back of his throat like he’s about to pick up where he left off – only to fall quiet as Captain Jora grinds fractured glass under her heel. The soft crunches become squeaks, then scratches, as whatever she’s stomping on is crushed to powder. Then, at long last, there is silence. It’s broken by Jora. Her voice is so dark that Kraglin’s bladder shrinks by a cubed inch. 

“So that’s what you boys’ve been scuffling over.” 

He can picture Udonta rolling his eyes. Oh shit. “What d’you expect? You ain’t getting no younger, Jora. I ain’t gonna sugar-coat it for ya.” 

“That’s _Captain_. I ain’t dead yet. And if you’re so damn _convinced_ –“ Another smash, “ – That I’m _past it_ –“ Two more, _skrsh crnch_ , and a strangled note of dismay from Udonta; what the hell is she breaking? “- How about you try a stint without my fuckin' _favor_ instead? Walk a coupla miles in Dagada’s goddamn moccasins.” Or words to that effect. 

Udonta sucks in a breath. Then pushes it out in a mocking snort. “Aw, you gonna demote me again? Over a bauble?” 

“That bauble coulda brought in five thousand units! More than you’re worth to me, that’s for sure.” 

A noisy scoff. “Yeah, yeah! Screw you too, captain.” 

Jora’s tone darkens further. Kraglin has to cross his legs. “You’re lucky I don’t drag you to the brig and make a lesson of you in front of the crew.” 

Don’t say it, Kraglin pleads. Don’t you fucking say it. Because Udonta’s sneering, he’s sure of it, and that doesn’t bode for anything good. Sure enough, he’s right. 

“Y’know what?” Udonta says. “I don’t think you could if you tried.” 

Oh shit. Kraglin did not sign up for this. Couldn’t he have picked the one Ravager galleon where there wasn’t a mutiny in the works? Or at least a first mate to sleep with who didn’t have a bigger deathwish than him? His ankles are borderline quaking, and he’s on the safe side of the door. He’d thought that the silence when he’d woken next to the man was bad, but the one that follows Udonta’s statement is of a different caliber altogether. This one _simmers_. 

“You’re on Horuz’s ground team for the next job,” says Jora lowly, after a full festering minute measured by Udonta’s heavy breaths and Kraglin’s elevating sweat levels. “Ya follow his orders. Shoot where he points, sit up and beg when he tells you to. And you don’t show your ugly mug on my Bridge until I give the say so. Understood?” There’s a huff of affirmation. “Right. And as a special treat, ya get to go to Dagada and notify him to take over first mate’s duties. For the foreseeable future." The huff is… rather more incendiary this time. Jora croaks out a laugh. “You ain’t got no one to blame but yourself. Hop to it, Udonta.” 

Kraglin thinks that’ll be it. Kraglin prays that’ll be it. Kraglin is mistaken. 

“Let’s say you do get offed in that period though,” Udonta begins. “Hypothetical-like. Or you croak in your bed, or whatever.” Kraglin has to resist the urge to bust down the door, storm across the room, and strangle him himself. “Who takes over?” 

Jora’s snarl is bloodcurdling. “ _The. First. Mate_. Now git, or it’s the brig.” 

Udonta gits. A final smash of something delicate breaking over the doorframe sees him out. Kraglin sees the leg of the trinket, the one Udonta’d stepped on back at the bar, skitter across the floor and drop down a grate, never to be seen again. It’s followed, unfortunately, by Udonta himself. 

He narrows his eyes at Kraglin who, having petrified at the sound of his approach, is nose-to-nose with him. The arrow’s in its sheathe. Kraglin sees him contemplate it. But Udonta takes in his frozen stare and his crusty crimson coating in two quick glances, one up and one down. Rather than quick and agonizing death, Kraglin’s treated to a full set of broken yellow teeth as Udonta growls – then he grabs him by the fucking Mohawk, _ow_ , and yanks him along the corridor. 

“The heck are you doing here, rookie?” he mutters. Kraglin swallows, bent double to compensate for the difference in their height as Udonta continues his attempts at scalping him. A Ravager squeezes by on the other side of the corridor, glancing at them with unbridled fear. Kraglin, willing to comply with any interrogation if Udonta will only let go of his hair, answers in a jumbled rush. 

“Figs told me to find you, she said –“ 

“This about Varra?” Udonta, against all odds, laughs. The sound reverberates down his arm and shoots needles into Kraglin’s scalp. It doesn’t sound especially mirthful. “If this’s about Varra, yer the last person I wanna see right now.” 

“Um, okay. If you let go of my hair, I can go –“ 

Udonta carries on as if he hasn’t heard. “You ain’t got no idea what’s going on here, do ya? No fucking clue.” There’s that laugh again. The next group of Ravagers they pass collectively cringe. So does Kraglin. “That must be nice.” 

“It’s not, actually, I’m very confused, and my head really hurts, so –“ 

Udonta waves his free hand lazily through the air. “Look, I ain’t in the mood to be explaining things. Just know that Varra didn’t watch his mouth, and that you better be careful if you don’t wanna end up the same way.” Udonta isn’t in any position to lecture people on minding what they say, given what Kraglin’s just heard. It’s best not to voice that thought though. 

“This about what happened on that satellite station?” he asks instead, squinting from under the handful of greasy hair in Udonta’s grip. His eyes are watering; he blinks the sting away. “Look, I said I weren’t gonna say nothing, and I meant it. That’s between you and me. It ain’t never gonna happen again, so if you can just forget it…” 

“I forgot it the moment I closed the door,” Udonta snarls. Right. Of course. “Unfortunately for you an’ me, Varra didn’t.” 

Ah. “You’re first mate,” Kraglin tries. “Who cares who ya fuck?” 

“The person who was gonna be my first mate when I made captain.” Ah. “Look, it ain’t none of your business.” 

Except for the fact that he’d been, well, as intimately involved as was possible. The pressure on his hair isn’t so agonizing now; Kraglin tests the slack and tentatively uses the extra inch to look at Udonta’s face. The man’s still striding along, but slow enough that Kraglin doesn’t have to stumble to keep up. His jaw’s clenched, and there’s a muscle ticking away under his eye like it’s keeping time. 

“What happened?” Kraglin asks. 

Udonta waits until they’ve come into an empty stretch of corridor, no more Ravagers to terrorize. Then he shoves him up against the wall and punches him in the face. 

Hard. 

Kraglin’s nose squishes like it’s made of dough. Shit. There go his bonny good looks. “Fuck!” he tries to say – it comes out ‘fugk’, but he thinks he gets the gist across. 

“He said,” says Udonta, teeth bared in Kraglin’s face, “that I shoulda killed you when I had the chance.” 

Another punch – this delivered to the solar plexus. Kraglin bends around it, wheezing up spit. Blood gushes over his upper lip. “He said that if I didn’t do it, he would.” 

That lunch they’d shared suddenly comes over as a lot more sinister. Thank fuck Kraglin’d spent his formative years scrambling through the gutters of a metropolis-planet; nothing accelerates your immunity development like wallowing in toxins day in and out. The next hit tenderizes his ribcage. Kraglin’s too busy trying to find a solid chunk of cartilage in his nasal ridge to realign to give more of a reaction than a pained hiss. 

Udonta’s final words are delivered in a menacing rasp, close enough to his ear that Kraglin’s convinced he’s readying to take a bite out of it. “He said that if I didn’t step up and put an arrow through your dumb fuckin' skull, I was proving that I was too soft to be captain. And I’m wondering if he mighta been right.” 

All Kraglin can taste is copper. All he can see is bloodstains and the worm-like blue arteries in Udonta’s throat. “If you shodt him jus’ for sayingk dat,” he burbles, “I dink you’b already proobed him wrong.” 

Udonta’s head tilts in consideration. Breath lathes his earlobe, humid and dangerous. Whether he’s contemplating what’s been said, or is just trying to make sense of it, Kraglin has no idea. Fingers tighten on his lapels, leather creaking – fingers that could give the same treatment just as easily to his neck – and Kraglin expects the pummeling to resume any minute. But Udonta nods to himself, and steps back. 

“Huh. Guess you’re right. Hadn’t thought of that.” 

Kraglin warily straightens – and, when that movement isn’t met with violence, sets his jacket to rights. His nose, unfortunately, is beyond repair. “Habby to helb, sir…?” 

Udonta’s expression becomes bemused. “’Sir’? Didn’t you hear the captain, greenie? I ain’t first mate no more. Just another grunt. Like you.” 

Kraglin chooses to ignore that last part. “Yeah, but you’ll be bagk, won’d ya?” 

It’s true. He doesn’t trust a guy like Udonta to stay down, no matter how low he’s kicked, and he’d rather be on his good side when the inevitable resurrection occurs. Speaking of kicking though – and grievous bodily harm in general… 

Kraglin presses his hands over his ribcage and works on convincing his lungs that they don’t need to breathe so deeply. Damn, he’s gonna have bruises in the morning. And black eyes. Two of them, no doubt. Udonta punches hard. Udonta also notices the difficulties Kraglin’s having; there’s a flicker in his dark red eyes – all the warning Kraglin gets. Then Udonta grabs his head and tilts him roughly towards the light. Kraglin most certainly does not squeak. A red bubble expands out of his left nostril, glossy and trembling, then bursts over his concave septum. 

Udonta clicks his tongue off the roof of his mouth. “Shaddup. Lemme see.” He uses his thumbs to angle Kraglin’s jaw from left to right. 

There’s no arguing with that tone. Kraglin relaxes. Slowly. The panel above his head is chipped at one corner; bright light pours through, blinding compared to the off-white rays that percolate the dusty plastic screen around it. His eyes are watering like fountains on a Xandarian lawn, and Kraglin’s cheeks are so slippery with blood and saltwater that Udonta’s fingers slide until they’re almost gouging them. Udonta scrutinizes what’s left of his nose and rattles his throat like an angry snake. It’s an odd sound – Kraglin’s never heard anything quite like it, not outside of a lizard-fighting ring. He’s certainly never heard it emanating from a Kree. But whatever it is, it’s not positive. 

“How bab is id?” he asks, voice hoarse beneath the nasal wetness. 

Udonta’s mouth thins. “Doc’ll be able to salvage most,” he says. “I think.” Kraglin waits expectantly. Udonta just blinks at him. There’s no hint of an impending apology. Of course; that’d be far too much to ask. Kraglin sniffs – then regrets it. 

“I guess I’b bedder be off den.” There was an actual purpose to this visit however, and he’s not in the mood to be chewed out by Figs on top of suffering Udonta’s brand of tough-love. “Oh yeh. Varra. The footnodes: M-shib endgine. _Whooshd_. Chugked da body out da airlogk.” 

Udonta nods. Like this is your average, everyday conversation between two pals. Kraglin wants to scream. “Alright rookie,” he says. “Go get that face fixed. I’ll put you on Horuz’s team – we can go over the shit with Varra then.” 

So, to top everything off, he’s being assigned active duty. Whoopdee-fucking-do. 

Kraglin comms Figs once he’s laying on a table in the cobbled-together medicenter that dominates the _Eclector’s_ far left wing, head ringing from the moonshine that’s been poured down his throat in favor of painkillers – they save those for the named recruits, he figures. He leaves a message after the surly answering tone (“I’m asleep, fuckhead, try again in my day-cycle.”) 

“Figs? You bet on a month for me, right?” He pauses, taking the opportunity to slurp air through his newly reconstructed nasal passages. It tastes like antiseptic and rust. “Figs, I think you’re gonna be rich.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, things are heating up plotwise... :tense music:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **No way am I going to have time to fill any prompts this week, but still feel free to dump any in my inbox over at write-like-an-american.tumblr.com. Drop me a comment if you've liked the story this far. Mucho de love!**
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **It's a wee bit shorter than usual, but yay, chapter!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **In which Kraglin attempts to flirt, Horuz is Horuz, and space is BIG.**
> 
>  
> 
> ****

Kraglin clatters to a halt at the bottom of the steps that feed into Hangar Bay Z: out of breath, feeling like an idiot, and ten minutes late.

He’s surprised they haven’t left without him. But there they are, in all their scraggly glory: six Ravagers, crammed under the buxom swoop of a shuttle’s underbelly. Udonta’s at their centre. Horuz stands stiffly a few metres behind, chin jutted out and trying to look like he’s in charge. Horuz is the bearded goon with the face that turns into a ripe plum at the first hint of insubordination or humidity, the one who’d gotten his kicks out of bawling him out in the engine room on his first day. Horuz is also, Kraglin decides, an A-grade a-hole. That doesn’t stop him from staggering over and gasping out an apology. Horuz sneers at him, while Udonta sniggers under his breath. 

“Aw, greenie, where’d you get lost this time?” 

“I didn’t get lost,” Kraglin argues, propping hands on his knees and panting. “S'not my fault your dumb maps don’t work right.” 

Udonta smirks, drawing giggles from the surrounding Ravagers. Bunch of fucking schoolchildren. “Nah, you’re just shit at reading them.” 

Kraglin pulls himself up. “I learn better by experience, is all.” 

“S'why you've been crew coming-on a month and you still can’t find the low hangar bay…” 

“Quiet!” Horuz roars. Judging by the puce coloration and the accompanying spray of spittle, he’s been working himself up for some time. Kraglin’s unsurprised. Being put in charge of an uppity Udonta sounds more like punishment for Horuz than vice versa. And, judging from the manic energy in the Kree’s odd red eyes, he’s channeling his anger at the captain and bo’sun into making Horuz’s life as unbearable as possible. 

It’s a noble cause. Kraglin pledges to support him every step of the way. “Can I fly?” he asks. 

Horuz fingers curl like they’re practicing wringing off his head. “Shut the fuck up and do what I say,” he growls. “All of you, on the fucking ship. Now. And greenie?” 

Kraglin snaps to mock attention. “Yeah?” 

“I see your skinny ass anywhere near them controls, I’m gonna fillet it for a mid-afternoon snack.” Something about the way he says that tells Kraglin he’s not joking. Bravado cowed – until he can think up suitable revenge – he swallows and slinks after the rest. Whatever. Ain’t like he wants to pilot their stinky ships, anyways. 

Onboard, he ends up sandwiched between an overweight Kronan and an A’askvarii girl with black-dipped tentacles. The only thing worse than being caught between a rock and a hard place is being caught between a rock and a sea-monster. But seeing as every other nameless mook in the craft has picked up on the weird vibes from Udonta – that, or they’ve heard about his demotion from Dagada, who’s been bragging to everyone he sees – and is straining to sit as far away from him as possible, Kraglin supposes it can’t be helped. He chooses Scylla over Charybdis. 

“Hi,” he says to the A’askvarii. “I'm not allowed to tell you my name, but I gotta say, that dye-job’s pretty awesome.” 

The A’askvarii’s hairless eyelids spasm, and her gill-like nostrils quiver. He thinks she might be trying to flutter them. “Thank you,” she purrs. Slithers an inch closer. Kraglin grins. He can still pull ‘em. 

On his other side, the Kronan makes a belch-like scoff – sounds like two mountains grating together. “No fucking the new guy,” he says, arms crossed over his chest. His jacket’s open and several sizes too small, straining around a rubbly orange belly. “At least, not next to me.” 

A’askvarii-girl’s gills flare as she brays out a laugh. “Next time then, sweetheart,” she tells Kraglin, and tenderly caresses his chin with a sticky tentacle-tip. Kraglin tries not to lean away. 

“Sure. Just so you know though, I do the fucking –“ There’s a choke from Udonta. Kraglin scrambles to rephrase. “It’s just, y’know, what they say about A’askvarii gals and tentacles – not that you’re like that… Or, if you are like that, there ain’t nothing wrong with it, but heck, I ain’t really into it. That’s all.” 

A’askvarii’s looking at him oddly. “Right,” she drawls. Retracts her tentacles and turns to bestow her attention on the Ravager on her other side. Kraglin glowers at his boots, cursing his luck, Udonta, and everything in between. The Kronan’s elbow digs into his side. His chuckle would’ve wobbled the belly of any other species, but the heavy, stone-cast gut remains unshakable. 

“Well greenie, you sure fucked that one up,” he stage-whispers. Kraglin shrugs him off. Whatever. 

________________________________________ 

Horuz ain’t the type to brief them down before they get to the shooting and stealing, so, after Udonta’s stopped wheezing and the A’askvarii’s ceased her jabbering and silence has fallen once more, the Kronan takes it upon himself to fill them in. 

“Ain’t a big job,” he tells them, pulling up a dodgily-sketched schematic on his wristpiece. Even Kraglin, whose artistic skills are on par with those of a three-year-old, examines it dubiously. “We’ve been commissioned to retrieve the skull of a Cartel don – s’got some nice shinies lodged in it, apparently. Should fetch a pretty price as a… a table-piece or something. I dunno.” 

Udonta’s head pops up. Kraglin disguises his laugh in a cough. He can just see it: the gem-studded skull of a gangster bobbing above Udonta’s dashboard like fuzzy dice. 

“Anyway. Ain’t got no guards or nothing, so long as we don’t set the alarms off – just a bunch of old-fashioned traps. We got us a diagram from an inside source –“ The wristpiece is given an illustrative shake, one which blurs the fuzzy blueprint further. “- So it should be an easy in-and-out. Usual rules though, for greenie’s benefit…” A square orange hand, larger than a shovel-head, swaddles Kraglin’s entire shoulder. “Don’t touch nothing, and don’t be a fucking idiot,” says the Kronan, patting hard enough to level a lesser man. “Or don’t come back alive.” 

Survive today and tomorrow, and he can start telling folks his name. That’s motivation, if nothing else is. Kraglin nods. 

“Alright!” calls Horuz from up front. “We’re coming into orbit! Get yer space suits on!” 

They can’t, for obvious reasons, dock on an alarm-rigged memorial asteroid that’s only twice the size of their craft. They can, however, circle the moon around which the memorial floats, matching orbit and velocity, and – as the Ravagers say – _take a walk_. Kraglin unbuckles himself along with the rest, and stands on his chair to reach the suit down from the roof compartment. It’s… crustier than he expected. Hopefully not with the remains of the last occupant. 

“Might wanna check it for rips,” says A’askvarii cheerfully, as he attempts to subtly diagnose whether the lump of brown clinging to the suit’s inside pant leg is a chunk of exploded kidney or just the result of incontinence. “Or things could get a wee bit messy.” 

No further explanation is needed. Swallowing, Kraglin holds his suit up and inspects the rubbery coating. How old is this thing anyway? In Nova systems, the corps have upgraded to single-piece headsets, which contain an internal air supply and cover the body in a transparent pressurized forcefield which, according to the rumor mill, feels comparable to a sensual full-body tickle. Fuck, with one of them things on you, you could go for spacewalks naked. Some ambitious young recruits have been known to. 

Kraglin wonders what happens if he finds a tear. Does he sit this one out? Do they carry a patch kit? Does he get chucked out anyway, and hold his breath? 

Horuz squeezes through the cockpit door, girth increased by the extra layer of rubber around his waist. His helmet’s off, so they suffer the full delight of his bloodshot stare. “Quit fuckin’ around, rookie. Hatch opens in one minute.” 

Kraglin, running worried fingers around the suit’s scuffed elbow patches, gulps and obeys. He’s still struggling with locking the helmet into the pressurized seal when Horuz starts the ten-second countdown, and almost garrottes himself in his desperation to pull the hood into place. A’askvarii clucks her tongue – it sounds fuzzy over the internal comm – and takes over, batting his fumbling hands away. The suit clicks closed as Horuz says ‘zero’. 

Then the floor drops out from beneath them, and there’s nothingness. 

________________________________________ 

Space is an ocean in the sky. 

That’s what they teach you in the slum academy on Hrax, which commandeers a smog-saturated space under the aqueduct once a week, using wrecked rocket parts for blackboards and dictating to their audience of grubby street-children from ancient, carbon-age books. But that’s only because these are the kids who ain’t never gonna afford a ship ride; the kids who are born and who die in the ghettos. They’re not planetbound – but they might as well be. 

Kraglin isn’t one of them. Not anymore. He likes to think he never was: that he’s always been different, that he’s always had his eyes set on something bigger, something _more_. But nevertheless – out here, drifting through the deep, surrounded by nothingness in its purest and most absolute form, Kraglin’s mind swims back to those words, as hideously inaccurate as he now knows them to be. 

_Space is an ocean._ He can only pray that it doesn’t drown him. 

“Oi, rookie.” Udonta’s voice, scratchier than ever through the comm device. He sounds muffled, far-away. Unreal. “We’re moving out.” 

Kraglin nods, forgetting that he can’t see it, and continues to watch the endless void. Space is so dark that it must have substance. If he could roll up his sleeves, run his fingers through it, surely he’d feel fibers running over his skin? Touch the silky black grain? 

A gloved hand cuts off that train of thought. It hooks onto his elbow, squeezing hard enough to be felt through the synthetic second-skin: an aching anchor to reality. Kraglin is dragged forwards by a pulse of Udonta’s rocket-boots, drifting across the silent soundscape of far-off stars. The other Ravagers are ahead. The burning jets of their rocket boots glimmer like cat eyes. Distance is meaningless; the memorial satellite hovers at once close enough to cup in his hand and a thousand miles away. Kraglin’s mind is numb with wonder and awe. He shakes it away when Udonta speaks again, this time rough and quiet – “It gets better, y’know.” 

Kraglin has to remember how to formulate a reply. “What d’you mean?” 

“Space. This.” Udonta waves at the frozen, fathomless chasm. From the lack of Horuz and the Kronan’s gut-labored breathing, they’re on a private line. “Spend enough time in it, and it don’t seem so…” His voice trails off. Kraglin can’t see his expression through the black glass of the helmet, but he twists to face him anyway, moving like a swimmer in saltwater. 

“What?” 

“Aw, y’know.” Udonta’s boots vomit another amber flare – although if he’s trying to drown out their conversation, his efforts are kinda redundant. Vacuum, and all. Kraglin smiles to himself. 

“Scary?” he offers. 

Udonta’s flightpath stutters. “I was gonna say big.” 

Kraglin’s smile, safe behind the inch of solar-protected plexiglass, grows. “Mm-hm.” 

The crackle of a comm-switch being flicked. “Hurry the fuck up, lovebirds,” Horuz snaps. “Or I take both your cuts.” 

There’s a moment of silence – absolute silence, unbroken by the sputter of static from a comm. Then Udonta growls and shoves Kraglin's shoulder, sending him into a yawing spin that’s more dizzying than any rollercoaster. “Put your own jets on, rookie,” he says, pulling ahead. “I ain’t dragging you the whole damn way.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for all the amazing comments! I'm so pleased that people are liking this fic; I can't even put it into words. I'm starting another job soon, so I'm going to be a bit busier than usual - but nevertheless, I'll try to keep to the bi-weekly update. Please keep pointing out any SPAG errors! It's good to know you guys have my back~**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **And I'm still slogging through prompts over at write-like-an-american.tumblr.com. They maaaay get uploaded here if I do enough (and can be bothered to edit them). Who knows! :D**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ********


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin goes tomb raiding, and the author overplays the Indiana Jones parallel.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Guess whose laptop broke. Ugh. Thankfully I have this fic saved! Still, very irritating, and I've lost a lot of other stuff. It's been one of those awful days where everything goes wrong - my laptop broke, then my charger broke, then my headphones and my bike so I was late for my first day at work... Must've done something wrong in a past life. :'( Still, have fic. I hope you've all had better days than me! x**

The memorial is carved from cool white glass, frosted to opaqueness. Kraglin listens to the commands being muttered over the comm, then says “Gravitize!” feeling like an action hero in some cheesy Xandarian space-flick. The thump, as his jets switch off and his boots lock on, is soundless, but it reverberates through his entire body from head to toes. Kraglin pats himself down, making sure all limbs are attached – he’s stuck to a solid surface, which is something, but is also aware that said surface is still hurtling through the void with him attached to it. Everything’s hazy and uncertain, as if he might have lost a couple of vital organs along the way.

“Greenie!” Horuz shouts from ahead. “Next time you slow us up, we leave ya!” And if space is vast and terrifying, the thought of being alone in it is infinitely worse. Kraglin runs over, the boots allowing just enough lift to fly for an extended stride before bringing him crashing down. 

It’s… oddly liberating. He’s never had the chance to run through a meadow or a forest or any of that shit – conurbation kid, and all. But he imagines it might be something like this. Only, y’know, less _bottomless abyss swallowing you from all sides._

For some reason, the Ravagers have waited for him rather than heading into the tomb. Kraglin sucks his cheeks, surprised. He’d have thought that they’d want to get this over with as fast as possible, before their presence was detected and reinforcements dispatched. When he reaches the small crowd, the large spacesuit belonging to Horuz waves him up to the front, then turns him by the shoulder to point at the tomb’s open mouth. 

“Go on then,” he says, nudging him with the tip of his gun. Kraglin looks around the circle, but can only see his own reflection in the blank black slabs of glass. He can’t tell which one’s Udonta, but the Kronan at least is recognizable, and so he focuses on him. 

“Um. I’m going first?” 

The Kronan shrugs. “Sorry kid. Everyone’s gotta go first sometimes.” That’s what he says. What Kraglin hears, however – _you don’t have a name yet; ergo, you’re expendable_ – is another matter entirely. 

“Seriously?” he asks them. “I got two days before I’m named.” 

Horuz leans in. “Then you’d better get a move on, if ya wanna make it back to ship in time.” _If you want to make it back to ship at all_ is unspoken, but then again, it doesn’t really need to be said. Kraglin holds his ground a moment. Then grabs Horuz’s plasma pistol – ignoring the warning snarl – and marches into the tomb. The Ravagers peel after him. 

“Map’s on your wrist,” Kronan reminds him. Kraglin nods. It’s impossible to tell how far the different voices are through the comm – but Kronan’s unmistakably bringing up the rear. He just hopes they don’t have to retreat in a hurry. Starting off at a slow pace, he pulls up the schematics and rotates them until they start to coalesce in his brain. He thinks he’s got the knack when a palm claps down on his shoulder, preventing him from taking his next step. 

“This's a shit plan, Horuz!” Udonta yells, yanking him back. “The kid can’t read a fuckin' map!” 

“I can too!” Kraglin retorts. He windmills his arms to catch his balance, and frees himself from Udonta’s deathgrip with a duck and a twist. “The fuck is your fuckin' _problem_?” 

Udonta’s finger jabs the front of his helmet, glove-grip squeaking on the glass. “My problem is that you’re gonna get us all blown sky-high! Watch where you’re walking, would you?” 

“I _was_ , before you grabbed me –“ 

Udonta wordlessly points ahead of them. Kraglin follows the gesture, sees nothing but an octagonal corridor studded with asymmetrical crystals and a misty white floor, and turns back to relate his findings in as offensive terms as possible – to be met with a firm hand on the back of his helmet, which forces him to look again. “You dumb fuck,” Udonta hisses. “Don’tcha know a pressure pad when you see one?” 

The section of floor ahead is possibly – _possibly_ – a scant fraction of an inch higher than those around it. Kraglin jeers. “That ain’t nothing.” 

The hand on his helmet delivers an open palmed slap. “Why don’t ya tread on it then, and see? Just give the rest of us who don’t wanna die enough time to get clear.” 

A-hole. But he might just have a point. Kraglin scowls at him anyway, and takes several steps back, shuffling into the Ravagers behind him and intending to take the panel at a running jump. Once again, he’s halted, this time by Udonta’s groan. “You gonna leap without knowing what’s on the other side, rookie? Fuck. This's why I work alone.” 

“Udonta!” snaps Horuz. “This’s a learning experience! Let the rookie learn!” 

“Let him blow his legs off, more like.” Udonta’s helmet shakes from side to side, like he can’t believe how they’re all this stupid. “Look, it ain’t hard, kid. The wall’s not boobied – so you put your foot on it like so –“ He demonstrates, the stomp vibrating soundlessly through the airless compartment. “Then you say ‘gravitize’ whenever you move onto a new plane.” Udonta lifts his other boot, slowly turning horizontal, and waves his hands in a non-verbal ‘voila’. Kraglin half-expects him to bow. “Simple. Even you can’t fuck it up.” 

High praise indeed. Kraglin can’t bring himself to thank him, but he knows good advice when he hears it, even hidden under a gruff tone. And Udonta’s the only one who’d spoken up. He nods at Udonta, sets his sole against the slope, and carefully picks his way up the wall. He hears the others follow, whispers of ‘gravitize’ filtering through the fizz of white noise. After scrutinizing the floor beyond, Kraglin judges it safe to take his weight and hops lightly down. There’s no dissuasion from Udonta, and no explosion. He waits a second to make sure, then releases his breath and starts to walk. He can do this, he reminds himself. Just two more days. 

“Damnit,” one of them mutters. It sounds like A’askvarii-girl. “Figs said she was gonna chip me in on the bet if he didn’t make it.” Kraglin pretends not to hear. Udonta’s a solid presence at his back, acting as his eyes and communicating the hazards ahead through a system of prods, slaps and hard flicks. 

“Slice field,” he says, pointing out a shimmer at neck-height. “Cut right through your suit – you too if you ain’t careful.” Kraglin nods and makes to duck under it – but is pulled back by Udonta’s grip on his bicep. “ _Careful,_ I said.” He checks behind him – the Ravagers are spread out, navigating their varying bulks through a section crisscrossed with alarmed wires. When Udonta deems they’re too distracted to care, he leans in and activates the private comm. “Look. They know you're gonna try and slip beneath – so what're they going to trap next?” 

So that’s how this game works. Kraglin squats down, assessing the floor ahead of him – and spots the danger immediately. “There!” It’s another pressure pad, smaller than the first and only differentiated from its surroundings by a centimeter. He’s inordinately proud at having found it – and then prouder, when Udonta squeezes his arm and nudges him forwards. 

“Git on with it, then.” 

He slips his helmet under the forcefield, then gravitizes to the wall while still in a squat. It’s not his most graceful moment, and he suspects from the radio silence that Udonta is laughing at him from the privacy of his own suit. Least he has the decency not to broadcast it to the whole damn team. 

Kraglin’s on a roll. He spots the next trap – a series of nozzles that will start spitting acid when anyone walks beneath them – all on his lonesome. Thinking of a way around it is rather more difficult – he can’t just gravitize his way through this one. He glances at Udonta and receives a stoic shrug. Alright. No help here. No problem. A quick inspection of the mechanism reveals how it operates – sensors are set besides every spout, directed at the floor. Unavoidable and deadly. But… not necessarily to them. 

“Anyone got anything they won’t miss?” Kraglin sends down the line. It’s what Udonta’s been waiting for – he fishes in the pocket of his suit and pulls out two empty clips from a projectile-age rifle. Heaven knows why he’s got them, or from where, but at least they’ll come in handy now. Kraglin grabs them with a grateful grin, hidden by his visor. He lobs them, one after the other, approximately five seconds apart, skittering to the corridor’s end. The first one is vaporized. The second, though… 

“Cool,” he breathes. 

Udonta presses a third bullet clip into his palm. “Ready?” 

Kraglin’s chest is loose and tight at the same time. His leg muscles tense in preparation. He realizes, through the rush of adrenaline, that he’s having fun. “Hell yeah,” he growls, and throws the clip. 

He hits the end of the corridor not three seconds later, Udonta on his heels. The A’askvarii is next line – she skitters to a halt just outside of the sensor’s range, and starts turning her belt pouches inside out in search of a suitably worthless sacrifice. The eureka hits at around the same time that the A’askvarii finds her scapegoat – a broken rubber pipe that looks like it’s been yanked off an M-ship engine, then stuffed in a pocket to avoid discovery. Kraglin turns on Udonta with a gasp. 

“That’s why you collect all them little trinkets, ain’t it? So you’ve always got something to throw!” 

Udonta’s black visor somehow manages to convey a deep-seated well of horror and contempt. “The hell is wrong with ya, rookie?” 

Or, he could be mistaken. Kraglin sheepishly raises his hands. “Sorry. Note to self – don’t melt Udonta’s toys.” 

“They ain’t _toys_ …” 

A’askvarii bashes into the wall besides them; they synchronously step out the way. There’s not much of a space between the edge of the acid-zone and the corridor’s dead end. With him, Udonta and the A’askvari, there’s only room for one more medium-sized Ravager, and that’ll be pushing it. Horuz, next in line, seems to come to the same conclusion as Kraglin about the likelihood of his gut receiving an acid-bath, and waves them irritably onwards. 

“What’s his problem?” Kraglin asks, as Udonta and the A’askvarii start examining the wall. A’askvarii shrugs. 

“He wants to be the one to lift the booty. As per fucking usual.” She locates the latch, a shallow diagonal slit that runs from the wall’s upper left corner to the center. It requires a specific key-card, coded no doubt to relatives of the deceased – but the A’askvarii isn’t dissuaded. One tentacle slinks around to unhook a strange machine from the back of her belt – “Forger,” she explains – while the others continue to map out the gash. Kraglin watches in genuine interest as she holds the machine over the slot’s furthest end, where the keycard would first be inserted. Six metal legs click out, bug-like, and suckers attach with an inaudible squish. The contraption’s thorax splits and a broad red beam sweeps out, passing the hole once, twice. It buzzes the A’askvarii’s comm in victory. There’s an ungainly arpeggio of clicks. Then the box shudders, and a perfect plastic replica pops from its top like a credit chit from an automatic transfer machine. 

“Awesome,” says Kraglin, and means it. The A’askvarii effects an elegant shrug. 

“Custom made,” she answers, tugging the card free and swiping it while her other tentacles pat the machine on its backside and encourage it to detach. “Nicked it off an arms dealer on Knowhere. Ain’t gonna find this baby anywhere else in the galaxy.” 

Kraglin makes an impressed noise. The Ravager fleet looks rickety and rusted – especially to a kid brought up with Nova patrols zooming overhead like shoals of silvery minnows. But he’s starting to realise that what he mistook for age is actually sturdiness, and that for all of their worrying creaks and groans, nothing short of a Kree warship is going to bring their Galleon down. And as for the tech… If there’s one things Ravagers invest in, it’s the thievery of the future. Shame they rarely seem to utilize their spoils. And that they can’t be bothered to nick a fucking space helmet. 

The door opens on silent hinges, revealing a wide corridor and a flight of downwards-leading stairs, each white glass plank suspended seemingly midair, unlit and swiftly swallowed by the darkness. One misstep and they plummet. There’s no landing in sight; heck, the fall could open into space itself. 

Kraglin’s never been more excited. 

Udonta steps aside to let him pass. “Light’s on your helmet, rookie,” he says. 

Kraglin walks with more confidence now. He sweeps each step as he goes, head swinging like a pendulum, boot pressing down an inch before he sets his weight. The bright beam blinks off imperfections in the crystal, alerting him to the false step, the tripwire, the pressure-sensor with the infra-red laser that would intensify enough to cook skin and bone. He’s getting the hang of this. Whoever constructed this place meant to make it deadly to passing scavengers, but passable for anyone in possession of a map and the right set of keys. Their map’s shite and their keys are cobbled forgeries – but they’re Ravagers and they always get the prize. 

They’re Ravagers, and he’s one of them. 

There’s almost a skip in his step when he jumps from the last elevated platform and sees the ornamental diamond coffin ahead. This place has obviously been visited, and recently – there’s flowers bundled on a small alter, preserved indefinitely in the sterile atmosphere. A parcel of scented salts has been left besides a candle, in offering to an unknown god. Kraglin scopes the room as fast as his untrained eyes can. He turns up frivolity after frivolity, but as far as he can tell, none are rigged to go boom. 

“We good to go?” he asks, just to be sure. 

“We good to go.” Udonta hops down besides him, smacking him between the shoulders hard enough to smart but not enough to knock him on his face. Kraglin can only assume that’s praise. He takes the lead in bold strides, the pale circle from his headlight swooping across the array of treasures left in the skeleton’s name, and picks his way towards the great glass menhir. Kraglin hangs back – just to make sure no axes swing down from the ceiling and snip off his head. Doesn’t pay to be too careful. The A’askvarii brings up the rear. She whispers an awed curse as they pass a larger-than-life bust forged entirely of gold. 

“Rich fuckers,” she says, rapping on its forehead, and Kraglin wholeheartedly agrees. Rich fuckers with crap security, who in turn are going to make them rich. It’s the circle of fucking life. This room is sealed and oxygenated – although all of them know better than to take their helmets off. Still, it’s enough for Kraglin to tell that there’s no hollow thunk from where the A’askvarii’s tentacles smack home. Damn thing’s solid as a Kronan’s hide. 

Now, that’s an idea. 

“Think your Kronan friend could carry it on the way out?” Kraglin suggests. “If we, like, made him a sling or something…” 

Udonta, leaping up the steps to where the dead don’s immobilized in a cloud of white-blue ice, is the one to answer – “If it slows him down, we leave ‘em both. Focus on the job, rookie – s'worth more, anyway.” He examines the ice around the man’s stripped skull from all angles. From here, Kraglin can see the rainbows scattering through the air from where Udonta’s light refracts through the gemstones lodged in the bone. Man’s more mineral than animal, and Kraglin wonders how many of his shimmering modifications were made during life. “Although heck knows why captain issued a whole team,” Udonta continues, pulling a row of files from his belt and testing them one by one against the crystal egg. All make promising screeches, but not a single scar is left on the translucent surface. “I coulda cracked this one solo.” 

That’s… a good point, actually. 

Udonta must realize it; his shoulders hunch, and he jabs the last pick into the crystal with sudden ferocity. It snaps. One half goes sailing off at an angle, turning cartwheels through the glare of his and the A’askvarii’s headlamps, and the other remains in Udonta’s clenched fist. “Damn bitch don’t trust me no more.” 

Kraglin and the A’askvarii decline to comment. Udonta snorts, tosses the other half of the pick, and stands so that his head’s on level with the dead man’s chin. “C’mon then,” he says to his empty sockets, giving the chrysalis a kick for good measure. “Let’s get this over with.” 

He whistles. The arrow shoots from its sheathe, which has been lashed to the outside of Udonta’s suit for convenience. It slices into the rock like it’s cutting butter on a hot day. There’s a silence, broken only by the sweet high tone and the sound of sawing crystal. The arrow finishes its journey and returns to Udonta’s belt. For a moment, the column remains intact. Then, as if in slow motion, the don’s head tips on the bony vertebrae of his neck, bringing the top half of the coffin with it. Udonta has to jump out of the away to avoid a gristly squish. Somewhat improbably, the crystal shatters when it hits the top step, and the gem-inlaid skull bounces free. It lands grinning at the bottom of the stairs. The ruby circlet ringing its crown gleams brighter than fresh-spilt blood. 

Kraglin stares at it. It stares back. “So that worked, I guess,” he says. 

Udonta stoops to pick it up, shooting him an eloquent finger. Of course, that’s when the alarm goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cliffhanger. Mwahahahaa.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Drop me a comment if you've enjoyed this fic! I really appreciate them. <3**


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the Indiana Jones vibe increases, and That Jackass gets to be a big damn hero.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Double chapter day, lalalalalaaaaa~**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **... Because this one's short, even if it's a Wham Episode. Still. Enjoy~ Other chappie'll be up in a coupla hours. x**

Kraglin’s first instinct is to run. He clamps down on it, checking with A’askvarii and Udonta – you never know, perhaps this alarm means freeze or die, or perhaps the entire floorspace has become a pressure pad, or –

A’askvarii’s already halfway up the stairs. Udonta sprints past fast enough to give him whiplash. “The hell you waiting for?” he yells. Kraglin spares a wistful salute for the golden bust, and follows. 

They pound towards the light. Whatever delicate, invisible structure is holding the stairway intact has started to shake, and Kraglin’s too distracted keeping his balance to remember which of the steps are booby-trapped. He leaps the first two on instinct, following Udonta and the A’askvarii. But a tremor throws him off-balance when the other two dodge the false stair. Kraglin crashes straight through it. The platform crumbles under his heel and deposits him into freefall. 

The sound that comes out of his mouth is animal terror. In that second he is utterly certain that he is going to die. 

Udonta’s too far away to reach him. Kraglin sees his hand falter before he even tries. A’askvari-girl has reached the top of the steps, where Horuz and the rest have crowded through, and is shoving them backwards, scrabbling at the Kronan where he’s blocking the escape. No help from there, either. The last thing Kraglin sees before he tips back below the level of the step above is Udonta’s blank black visor, his reflection shrinking out of view. 

_This is it_ , he thinks. _Congratulations to Figs_. He hopes, in a final and surprising burst of altruism, that the A’askvarii gets that cut. 

Then there’s a whistle. 

And pain. A lot of pain. 

It pierces Kraglin’s chest like – well, like a radioactive arrow. The momentum’s enough to drag him that half meter to the step above, pinning his torso like a bug on a corkboard. Gravity’s still in effect though. Body steeped in agony, Kraglin can’t muster the muscle control to grab onto the white platform through which the arrowhead is pierced. His eyes rolls back as he slips down the shaft. The metal’s stopped glowing, at least, so it’s not burning through him. But there’s still not enough friction and too much weight, and the shaft puckers the surface of the suit as he slides. Sharp metal fletching digs into the scrawny meat of his pectoral, from the inside. Ow, ow, ow. Fucking hell. If Udonta’s trying to mercy-kill him, can’t he at least do it right…? 

Kraglin slithers free, followed by a long string of blood. Apparently, the lack of radiation also results in a lack of cauterization. It takes him a moment longer to realise that he’s not falling. And another to realize why. 

Kraglin cracks his bleary eyes and looks up into Udonta’s mask. “Hey,” he slurs. Udonta, more concerned with the effort it takes to hold a lanky Hraxian deadweight by one arm, grunts. He kneels on the step, arrowhead piercing the luminescent marble perilously close to his knee. Tossing the skull to A’askvarii, he’s grabbed Kraglin by the wrist with both hands. Now, shoulders straining, he hauls his limp ass up and over, onto solid ground. 

“You better thank me for this,” he huffs. Kraglin tries, and fails. Words are becoming difficult, losing form. His tongue’s numb and, for some reason, it’s getting harder to breathe. Oh yeah. Hole in the lung. It’s funny, that he can forget that. 

Anyway, there’s no way he’s thanking him just yet. So for now, Kraglin takes Udonta’s muttered words as an order not to die. His head rolls on his neck as Udonta rearranges them, maneuvering clumsily while keeping balanced on the narrow, trembling step. He loops Kraglin’s arms across one shoulder, his torso plastered to Udonta’s suit by the increasing slick of red. Around them, the mausoleum rocks as if it’s caught in a cosmic storm. 

“Alright, rookie. Let’s get you outta here.” 

With a grunt and a ‘hup!’ Udonta stands, hefting Kraglin over his broad back in a fireman’s lift. He runs for the exit. Kraglin wheezes, throat helplessly opening and closing. He’s breathing but there’s no air going in. A massive weight is crushing his chest, and being bounced about like a blood-filled medibag that’s sprung a leak isn’t helping. Udonta’s helmet thuds off his ribs, and Kraglin sucks in a gasp on instinct – then regrets it, as it sends him into a fit of coughs. Coughing is, if anything, worse than the initial stabbing. Kraglin’s being dissected from within, and the racking heave of his body dredges up a mouthful of blood, tasting so strongly of copper that it makes his tongue ache. It dribbles down his chin and smears over the inside of the visor, slick and warm. 

“Shit!” he hears A’askvarii say. The door’s shut, Horuz and the rest already stumbling back through the maze of traps and acid-showers. The commlink is right next to his ear, but she might as well be lightyears away. 

“You got a patch?” Udonta asks, breathless. “Can’t take him out there when he’s got a hole in his suit.” 

The fact that Kraglin’s deflating lung isn’t the biggest of their concerns is telling. Kraglin’s vision swims over Udonta’s dirty space-boots, and he concentrates on counting the laces as his body desperately tries to tell him that he’s drowning on dry land. It… doesn’t work. 

Udonta kneels and rolls him off his shoulders – Kraglin’s chest protests, and he chokes weakly on blood. There’s hands fumbling along the seams of his suit, a tentacle wrapped around his waist to hold him steady as a flap of adhesive leather is smoothed over the arrowholes front and back. But Kraglin doesn’t feel it. He doesn’t feel anything, nothing at all – nothing except the rising flood of panic, as the crush in his chest cavity increases with every breath. 

“Damn it,” Udonta mutters. A steady hand grips his helmet, keeping his head tipped back. “He ain’t good.” 

The A’askvarii’s peering down at him from a million miles away. “He gonna make it to Doc?” she asks. There’s a lot built into that question. It’s old Ravager code – a law system comprised of only two maxims: _steal from everybody except each other_ ; and _if you fall behind, you get left_. A’askvarii-girl’s under no obligation to help him. Udonta neither. Heck, Kraglin doesn’t have a name yet – the Ravagers can walk away and find another sad, desperate sack of shit to fill his bunk and wear his boots. For a moment, he’s so convinced that they’re going to leave him that he forgets to fight for breath. 

But Udonta’s hand tightens on the helmet’s ribbed rear. He muscles A’askvarii aside, scooping his other arm under Kraglin’s knees and making to hoist him up once again. “He’d better fuckin’ make it,” he growls. Then, to Kraglin – “You hearing this, rookie? I just saved yer worthless hide! And I want some goddamn gratitude, so don’t you dare die on me now.” 

He sounds more angry than concerned. Anyone else, Kraglin would assume it was feigned. With Udonta, who can tell? 

A’askvarii-girl considers them for a long moment. Or rather, she turns her helmet to face them, while considering racing on ahead and leaving them to die surrounded by blaring sirens and the rumble of destabilizing crystal. Udonta, from behind the opaque plaque of his visor, glares back, stubborn and fierce. The A’askvarii’s tentacles curl. Then she pushes out a deep sigh and grabs him around the ankles, halving his weight between them. 

“C’mon then,” she says. “Let’s roll.” 

A scrap of the broken coffin and a fourth bullet clip see them through the acid trap. They take it in two shifts; the A’askvari arranges Kraglin on Udonta’s back, giving him a slap on the thigh and an order to hold on tight before bringing up the rear. The tomb is shaking properly now. Kraglin’s vision greys and his blinks get longer, but he sees the cracks snaking after them, rupturing the smooth marble bed. 

“Gravitize!” Udonta yells, jumping onto the wall. He runs them up and over the pressure pad and forcefield combination, then swears at the sea of laser beams ahead loud enough to jerk Kraglin back to semi-consciousness. 

“Just run straight through!” calls A’askvarii-girl. “What more can go wrong?” 

_That’s a shit plan,_ Kraglin attempts to say, but is restricted by the blood filling his airway. Udonta, on the other hand, hops on the wall like a demented puppy. “Great idea!” he bellows. Then drops his head between his shoulders like he’s aiming a headbutt, and charges. 

If Kraglin wasn’t busy coughing up his lungs, he’d probably throw up. 

The lasers jar and break around them. There’s another wail of alarms, more deafening than the first, and – 

The wall beneath Udonta’s boots shakes. 

Then again. 

And again. 

“Shit! Shit, shit, shit!” A’askvarii-girl streams past them in a flurry of tentacles. Kraglin raises his head, just a fraction, and makes the monumental effort of looking over his shoulder. Then regrets it. Shit indeed. All down the booby-trapped corridor, transparent gates are falling. They’re thinner than a planetbound vessel’s windscreen, but Kraglin’s not fooled – judging from the way the whole damn satellite skitters about whenever one drops, they’re landing heavy enough to slice a man in two. 

“Hurry up!” The A’askvarii screams at them. The shakes are growing, like earthquakes before an eruption. Closing in. “Come on, come on, come on –“ 

Udonta plows forwards. The impact of his boots jars what little oxygen Kraglin can retain right back out of him again. The end of the corridor yawns, starlight unprotected by any atmosphere and prickling at his vision; from the way Udonta’s tensed, every muscle straining, that black gash has shrunk to the pinpoint focus of his world. 

The second-to-last doorway clips Udonta’s heel. His yell of “Degravitize!” is swallowed by the A’askvarii’s shriek. They fling themselves forwards and tumble into the dark.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hope you enjoyed~ Drop a comment? :3 x**


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin is Not Dead.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Sup! Second chapter of the day, as promised! It's ma burfday so I've been kinda busy (and horrified that I'm turning twenty???) but I couldn't really leave y'all on that last cliffhanger. xxx**

“Oi. Rookie. You dead?”

_Yes_ , Kraglin thinks. He’s proven wrong; someone pokes him in the forehead, hard enough to make his nose wrinkle. 

“C’mon, I’m talking to ya, you ass. Don’t you fall asleep on me. Show a bit of respect.” If he’s dead – or at least, dying – can’t they just let him get on with it? Apparently not; the poke reoccurs, significantly harder. “Oh, so you’re just gonna lay there, huh? No comeback?” 

He knows that voice. Or perhaps it’s just that brand of affronted dickishness. He can’t put it to a name, but… _That Jackass_. 

There’s a loud snort. “You really gonna die here? Pathetic. Kids these days, I swear to –“ 

Kraglin licks his cracked lips. “Not a kid.” It takes all his strength. 

The poker, whoever they are, crows in delight and claps their hands. Kraglin might not be able to breathe, but he can still smell their breath; sour and mildly fetid, right up against his face. They’re too close, intruding uncomfortably on his personal space. Kraglin’s smothered by their presence without a single touch. “What was that? You say something, kid? You telling me you ain’t dead after all? That you ain’t some sad lil’ bitch I had t'lug about on my back like a fuckin' baby? Huh?” 

That’s who it is. Kraglin gurgles in a breath to tell Udonta to go fuck himself. He gets halfway before he chokes. 

“Look atcha,” says Udonta in mock disgust. “Drowning in your own blood. Heck, I ain’t seen such a sorry sight since...” He trails off. Kraglin uses the reprieve to slide back towards the numb darkness of unconsciousness, but is prevented by a muttered curse and the sharp introduction of a palm to his cheek. _Smack_. Oddly, the pain doesn’t register as much as he thinks it should – but it still jerks him out of the encroaching stupor. 

”Stop slapping me,” Kraglin groans. 

“Stop _dying_ then!” shouts Udonta, and gives his cheek a ringing back-hand in the other direction. Kraglin’s head thumps sideways onto the bed. He wants to tell Udonta that he’s not helping, but can’t find the air. Udonta continues his rant, undaunted, leaning heavily on the platform besides him. “Doc’s on his way. But y’know what? If you don’t open your eyes now, I’m gonna comm and tell him not to bother.” 

Kraglin is, for a moment, tempted to ignore him. He’s fairly sure that if Udonta wanted him dead, he would be by now – the man’s definitely had enough chances. But then he remembers that he’s equally sure of his inability to guess when Udonta’s bluffing. 

Alright, he might not kill him himself. But if he thinks there ain’t a prayer, that Kraglin’s drifting aimless through a comatose sea and isn’t ever gonna wake up again… Of course he’d give up hope. Who wouldn’t? Reinvigorated, Kraglin makes a co-ordinated effort to force his eyes open. He succeeds only in pushing more blood out of his airways. Udonta, however, takes this as a hint to continue his taunts. 

“Croak now, rookie, and you die nameless with no friends. That ain’t no way to go! Don’t you want to tell me your name, so I can cuss you out proper-like?” 

He does. He does more than anything. But his mouth’s not responding. His throat’s been reduced to a vessel for pumping blood out of his ailing lungs. Kraglin coughs weakly. The movement’s enough – just – to make his eyelids twitch. Udonta must have caught it. 

There’s a creak of leather as he checks the perimeter. Then, after ensuring nobody’s watching, a thumb skates across Kraglin’s underlip and smears the bloody spit away. Udonta’s skin is a little chillier, a little tougher than Kraglin’s own; calloused and scarred too. Kraglin lets his mouth fall open, and Udonta starts as his thumb brushes piranha-sharp teeth. “Come on, you bastard,” he hisses, close to his ear. His voice is rougher than ever, gravel and gasoline. “Just one more goddamn minute. If you wake up after the Doc’s done with you, you can tell me your name a whole day early, right there and then.” 

Kraglin wheezes through his nose when the thumb retreats, face falling into the cup of Udonta’s dry palm. They’re back on the _Eclector._ Must be – no space gloves. All Kraglin remembers of the journey is pain and breathlessness, of Horuz calling him _ballast_ and Udonta whistling his arrow around them in an elegant, red-trailed death-dance until the big Ravager retreated swearing to the cockpit. He’s grateful – or at least, he is until Udonta gives a cocky chuckle. 

“And you can thank me too. I deserve it, after everything I done for ya.” 

Still a jackass. Somehow though, the fingers curling under his shaved temple leach what little irritation Kraglin can summon. 

Then the door clicks open. Udonta’s hand yanks away from his face, and Kraglin flops onto the gurney with a whoof, chest jarring. “Hey Doc,” Udonta says, casual like he’s meant to be here. 

“Out the way, out the way…” There’s a bustle of movement, of chairs screeching on a metal floor and leather flapping on leather. Then hands – four of them – prizing and prying at Kraglin’s chest. At the doctor’s direction, a second set of limbs – tentacular this time; is it A’askvarii-girl? – lift Kraglin’s arm and pat the inside of the elbow until a vein raises. “I’ll sedate him before I operate,” says Doc, all in a rush. “He’s nearly named, after all.” Then, tone dipping: “Sir… I mean, Udonta. With, uh, all due respect…” 

“Yeah, yeah. I’m leavin'.” 

Kraglin isn’t overly fond of needles. Isn’t overly fond of any stabby things that aren’t his knives, to be honest. But this might be the last chance he gets. He slaps his mental self into shape, breath rattling, and forces his eyes open so he can affix his gaze to Udonta’s retreating skull. He can’t call out to him. Can’t whistle or wave or shape his mouth around a single word. But Udonta raises a hand anyway, without looking, implant glimmering dark as the blood around Kraglin’s mouth. 

“See you tomorrow, rookie,” he says. The medbay doors whoosh shut after him. Kraglin eyes droop, and he glides into blissful black before the needle pricks in. 

________________________________________ 

Udonta never shows. 

Kraglin is pissed. However, he’s more pissed about the fact that he is pissed than anything else. When the medbay door finally bings (the chirpy electronic squeak that means someone other than Doc, a four-armed guy of indeterminable species who prowls silently through his territory and delights in making Kraglin jump, has activated the doorpanel) he scrambles upright, beaming – only to be met with Isla. The smile falls off his face. 

“Hello t'you too, Rookie,” Isla says, eyebrows raised. She saunters on in without invitation, hoops bouncing in her glossy brown forehead. “Aw, you expectin' someone else? Morlug’s got better things to do than pine over your sorry ass.” 

‘Better things to do’ translates as ‘dubious stains to scrub’. Kraglin grimaces, one hand pressed to his tender chest. “She piss off bo’sun again?” he wheezes. 

Isla’s eyebrows winch higher. The movement is accompanied by a percussive clatter as every one of her forehead piercings flips and resettles. “The first mate, you mean? Dagada the so-called Detonator?” Of course. Udonta’s demotion. That had happened. How could he have forgotten? “- And yeah. Your girl’s gotta mouth on her a mile wide.” 

“S'not my girl,” says Kraglin. “She’s a friend.” He’s surprised to find that he means it. Not that he would say _no_ to getting his hands under that tight leather skirt, but… 

Isla chortles and squeezes his shoulder – thankfully, on the opposite side to where the arrow passed through. The hole (patched, vacuumed, swabbed, stitched, and liberally doused in antiseptic) twinges nevertheless. Kraglin fails at stifling a wince. “Whatever you say, rookie. She’ll probably be along on her lunchbreak though, so don’t you go falling asleep or dying on us or nothing.” She narrows her eyes. “You ain’t gonna die now, right? Doc patched you up good?” 

Kraglin ruefully strokes the edge of the bandage. “I got an air-tube sticking out my armpit. And I’ve been pissing in a pot. But Doc ain't the sort to waste no shit on a dead man. So got lucky, I guess.” His sentences are short, clipped. But that’s more down to tight breath than irritation; Isla’s grin is buoyant and he can’t stay grumpy, not even when she chucks him under the chin and the stud in her finger scratches like a cold, horny wart. 

“Lucky... You’re right about that,” she says. “Nice to have ya back in the land of the living. I was worried Figs was gonna win that damn bet.” 

Kraglin smiles. “You and me both.” 

________________________________________ 

Time passes quickly with Isla around to bounce snark off of. They wind up sitting opposite each other on Kraglin’s makeshift bed – which is little more than a metal pallet clothed in non-stick sheets, surrounded by a hodge-podge assortment of medical equipment that’s been looted from every damn Empire in the galaxy. Isla toes her boots off when Doc waves a scalpel, after five increasingly irritated threats have gone ignored. The socks underneath are patched, worn, and not much cleaner. She chatters away, filling him in on the latest gossip – Kraglin’s amazed that so much can change over two days, but that’s Ravager life for you. Live fast, die young; miss an hour, miss a whole fucking soap opera. Apparently, Dagada’s been swelling into his new posting like a pussy blister. 

Speaking of which – 

“Your bandage’s off,” Kraglin blurts. It’s halfway through Isla’s impersonation of the first mate as he chews out an unrepentant Morlug – which he’s sure is excellent, but having never spoken to the man, it’s hard to tell. He supposes he can be forgiven the non sequitur, what with medication and all; Isla certainly doesn’t seem to mind. Her mouth keeps blabbering for a second, then her brain catches up and she turns her dark palm over for inspection. 

“Yah. Infection’s gone – them new antibacterials Doc put me on sorted it right out. Hell, gimme a week and I’ll be able t'repierce it!” 

“You’ll do no such thing!” calls Doc from where he’s been unobtrusively eavesdropping as he reorganizes his collection of rusty bone-saws. “Next time, I amputate!” 

Isla carries on like she hasn’t heard. “Anyway. Ain’t here to chat about me. It’s your second time in the medbay in three-odd days, and both because of Udonta.” She whistles; whether it’s in mockery of Udonta or himself, he can’t tell. “Heck rookie, what did ya do to piss him off so bad?” 

“You’re the one who dumped me in his bed,” snaps Kraglin. Then sighs and toys with the corner of the bandage. “Anyway. This time he weren’t mad. Not much. Only when he thought I weren’t gonna make it.” The door pings again. Isla’s gaze fixes beyond him, but she nods along so Kraglin doesn’t bother to turn and look. “He saved my life, y’know? If he hadn’t shot me… I woulda died. Right there and then. In the tomb of some old rich mob codger. Sure, it hurt. But…” He can feel himself smiling, he can feelit. “But it was kinda awesome, too.” 

“Whatever you say, rookie,” says Isla, still looking over his shoulder. The corner of her mouth is twitching. 

Kraglin is, perhaps, still a little high. He’ll blame it on that later. “I think he likes me,” he muses. Because heck. How many folks can say they’ve been shot by Udonta’s arrow and survived? “And… and he ain’t so bad neither. I mean. Sure. He acts all grumpy. But –“ Isla’s mouth is really, really twitching. And she’s holding her breath too. Kraglin squints at her. “Hey. You havin' a stroke or something?” 

“Nope,” says Udonta cheerfully. “She’s just amazed that you survived all that, only to die the day before ya get named.” 

Kraglin freezes. Then drops his head into his hands. “Y’know what? Don’t bother. Just leave me a knife and I’ll do the job for you.” 

There’s a laugh. Udonta ruffles his hair before Kraglin can duck away – although he still tries, and is rewarded with a stabbing blaze between his ribs. “Ow!” 

“Don’t bitch; ya did that to yourself.” Udonta drags a metal stool over that’s far too spindly to bear his weight, then proceeds to prove this hypothesis incorrect, tilting it onto its back legs and propping his boots besides Kraglin’s ass. There’s grease sliming his toecaps, and something organic, green and unidentifiable wedged in the left sole. “Anyway, I ain’t supposed to kill no one in the medbay. Doc don’t like it.” 

“Indeed, Doc does not,” Doc agrees. “Doc would also appreciate it if you took your shoes off the bed, Udonta.” Udonta just gets more comfortable. Hygiene, apparently, does not concern space pirates. Even hygiene of the medical variety. Kraglin looks at Udonta’s boots, then up at the Doc. 

“You, uh, didn’t operate on me in this bed, did you…?” 

Doc stares at him like he’s been shot in the head rather than chest, one pair of arms folded over his belly while the others continue scouring orange powder from his sawblades. “No! I operated on you over there.” He points to a gurney in the corner. It’s completely open, no sealant cloth or medical-grade anti-bacterial glass. And it definitely hasn’t been washed. Kraglin balks. 

“So, you going to scrub that down before the next person’s dragged in, or…?” 

There’s that look again. “We’re on a spaceship, boy! Water doesn’t just grow in stars, you know!” 

So he’s not going to die of a punctured lung, but the jury’s still out on gangrene and blood poisoning. Great. Udonta’s boot pokes him in the thigh. “Cheer up, rookie. We’ll steal a coupla crates of antibiotics next time we pass a medicenter.” 

If anything, Kraglin gets paler. “You mean… we don’t have any? None on ship?” 

Isla pats his knee. “Sorry, kid. Think I used the last of them on my hand – woulda spared you half my needle if I’d known.” 

Because of course, needle-sharing’s all fine and dandy. Kraglin is from Hrax; ergo, his immune system can take more of a pounding than most. It’s still… disturbing though, to know that they’re facing serious injury on a biweekly basis and there’s not enough vacc-shots to go around. “Ain’t this the quartermaster’s job?” he asks. “To keep us supplied, I mean?” 

There’s a sudden lull in noise – like the others are holding their breath. Isla is, for some reason, shaking her head in a universal abort motion. She jangles most distractingly, like one of them fancy bell-dancers in the Xandar parades. But the warning comes too late. Udonta sets his stool legs down with a clang. 

“You can’t do much when you ain’t got nothing in the stock hangars to begin with,” he growls. “This’s what I been talking about. I keep telling the captain that she needs t'branch out – expand our enterprise, like. Fuck knows, we got the guns and the manpower. But does she listen t'me?” His demon-red eyes glare into Kraglin’s, demanding an answer. Kraglin, unfortunately, doesn’t have one to give. He wets his lips and wishes he had enough motion through his shoulders to shrug. 

“Uh. No?” 

Udonta snarls. “No she don’t! Every fuckin' time. Damn bat can’t take a word of good advice.” His expression twists nastily. “And Dagada’s worse. All bark and no bite, but _proud_ to boot. Thinks he’s better than the rest of us because of his fancy Nova education. Fuck that. Two years in a barracks don’t make you no smarter than no one. Just more _annoying_.” 

“Yondu,” says Isla, glancing at the Doc. Kraglin’s not sure if he’s glad to be included in the discussion without a full vetting, or just plain terrified. Fuck, if he ends up implicated in a mutiny… But Udonta’s off again before Kraglin can think of anything to change the topic, blue lips drawn up from his teeth. 

“Sell-outs, the both of ‘em,” he spits. “Sending the Ravagers after easy prey when a fleet our size could take on Nova platoons… Trawl the whole fuckin' outworlds! We could be bigger than the goddam Horde, but no, Captain Jora and her pet bitch Dagada have always gotta _play it safe_ …” 

Isla smacks his shoe. “Shut it! If you get tossed in the brig again… If the Detonator’s in charge of punishment…!” 

“He can kiss my bright blue ass, thas what he can do.” Udonta’s teeth have been broken enough that they’re probably as sharp as a Hraxian’s. When he bares them at Isla, glancing at Kraglin from the corner of his eye, it’s like being caught in the peripherals of a hunting shark. “I don’t give a shit if he smacks me about. Look, you gotta admit it. Even the rookie can see this ain’t right.” 

Kraglin leans away. “Oh. Oh no. I ain’t getting involved –“ He is, as usual, ignored. 

Udonta takes his feet off the bed. He replaces them with his hands, leaning into their little circle. There’s something earnest about his anger, a note of sincere gravity that’s not there when Udonta’s threatening Kraglin for the hell of it. Whatever he’s doing, whatever he’s planning, he’s convinced that it’s necessary. “Things need to change, Isla,” he hisses. “Gimme a week and I’ll be first mate again, and then… Well, I’ve been waiting for the old bag to croak long eno-“ 

Isla grabs Kraglin’s pillow, which is, after a night spent sweating through drugged sleep, not the most pleasantly fragranced of objects, and wraps it around Udonta’s face. “Shut up, I said. Not here. We don’t talk about that here!” 

Doc’s still scrubbing at his saws. His movements pick up when he notices the lull in conversation. There’s no telling how much he’s heard, and Kraglin’s neck hairs start to prickle. This could be bad. This could be _really, really_ bad. It could be worse if Isla actually smothers Udonta, and he ends up an accessory to murder as well. 

“Hey,” he says, breaking the near-silence of Udonta’s scratchy, muffled swearing. “Who wants to know my name?” 

He injects his voice with a little too much jubilation. Doc breaks his pretense at apathy to give him a weird look, but Udonta lifts his head out of the pillow with a grin. 

“It’s a day early,” Isla starts, although she doesn’t sound like her heart’s in it. She gives immediately when faced with Kraglin’s pleading stare – “Aw, what the heck. You’ve made it this far, you’ll last another night.” 

That seems a little optimistic for Ravager standards. But Udonta’s already nodding, fury diverted with toddlerish ease. “Let’s hear it, rookie!” 

Their faces are expectant, eager. This is it. The moment he’s been waiting for. His breath is dry, and there is, for some reason, a lump in his throat. He’s been looking forwards to this for so long that his tongue’s forgotten the shapes of the words he needs to say; sounding them out is like being born again. 

“Kraglin,” he croaks. “I’m Kraglin Obfonteri.” 

Doc’s cloth sends an uninterested scatter of rust to speckle the bloody tiles. 

“Huh,” says Isla. 

“Weird,” says Udonta. 

But Kraglin doesn’t care. His smile stretches to aching point, and he couldn’t swallow it if he wanted to. _I’m Kraglin Obfonteri. And I’m a Ravager._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Is this a plot I spy???**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Drop me a comment, and make my day. <3**
> 
>  
> 
> **Also guess who just drew porn...? http://write-like-an-american.tumblr.com/image/126242768111**
> 
>  
> 
> ********


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin has a name, Udonta has an enemy, and Isla makes another bet.**

He wants Morlug to be the next person he tells. Failing that: everyone. 

Isla has to explicitly forbid him from making an announcement over the comms, although Udonta is all for it. “You’ve met about a hundredth of the fleet crew,” he says, by way of explanation. “And only a tenth of them lot might give a damn about who you are. But what the heck. It’ll piss off Dagada.” 

“That,” says Isla through a gritted smile, “is why we ain't doin' it.” Her hair’s all frazzled. It must be tiring, being the sensible one in the room – especially when Isla has had so little practice. 

Doc gets tired of them now that Kraglin’s not in need of immediate medical attention and Udonta’s no longer spilling secrets liable to get him tossed out an airlock. They’re hustled out the medbay through a combination of swearing, glowering, and four very insistent arms. Kraglin’s got one elbow protruding at a right angle so his bicep doesn’t bump the tube keeping his lungs inflated, and has been left with an order to return in a week to have it removed, and to try not to get himself mortally wounded again in the meantime. 

For now though? He’s going to find Morlug. And then he’s going to bed. 

Udonta saunters along on his tube-side. Kraglin’s grateful – the march to his dormitory takes them past the canteen, along the central strut that joins one end of the ship to the other like a hollow rusty spine. The corridors go from jostling to jam-packed within seconds of leaving the lift (he doesn’t want to contemplate a ladder right now, and thankfully Isla doesn’t force the issue). But with the ex-first mate and a senior Ravager besides him, the crowds part faster than a shoal before a shark. He’s not elbowed once. Heck, he spots Lizard Guy and his clique scurrying for the walls. 

His bodyguards can’t prevent people from looking at him, though. No doubt wondering what an unnamed Hraxian rookie is doing on Udonta and Isla’s heels. Usually, Kraglin’d be shifting uncomfortably under the scrutiny, but right now he’s too tired to care. And chilly. It’s cold without coat or shirt, and the bandages do little to insulate. His strength drains with every wheeze pushed out of nose and tube. Rather than assessing the stares directed at him to discern whether they’re curious, envious, or laced with animosity, Kraglin blocks out the lot and concentrates on placing one boot in front of the other. 

Bed – yes. That’s what he needs. But first…? 

“Where’s Morlug?” he asks, listing to the side Isla’s assigned herself. She nudges his hip, letting him find his balance without providing any actual support. Ravagers are prideful bastards: if Kraglin can stay on his feet, he’s expected to use them. Isla shakes her head. 

“Oh no. You’re headin' straight to bunk before ya fall over.” She sees Kraglin start to protest, and interrupts him before he can begin – “I’ve cleared your duties for the rest of the day. But you’re back on tomorrow – startin' at the Bridge and all. I expect you to be bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and so forth.” 

The Bridge? The _Bridge_? Kraglin gawps at her. “The hell do you want me on Bridge for? Cleaning?” 

Isla’s smile is hidden behind a curtain of brown ringlets as she shakes her head. “Nah. Because you got a brain on you, Krags.” This… is news to him. As is the nickname. He’ll decide how he feels about that later. “Although damn,” Isla continues, marching blithely onwards, “do you do a good job of hiding it. What with all these near-death experiences and all.” She’s not wrong there. Kraglin has been through enough scrapes over the past month that he’s started to challenge his own perception of his intellect. “And now you're not expendable no more – well, a little less expendable, anyways – we better find ya something you're good at. I reckon you’ll have an eye for the star-charts.” 

Udonta makes an undignified noise. “Have you seen this kid read a map? We’ll wind up in Chitauri territory if we let him Nav.” 

Kraglin doesn’t get a chance to protest. Isla dances ahead and sticks out a bandageless hand, smile wicked. “Wanna bet on it?” 

Udonta almost slams Kraglin in the chest with his eagerness to slap Isla’s held-up palm. “You’re on!” 

“I thought we was past this,” mutters Kraglin. Isla throws him a patronizing look. 

“Aw, Krags. We’re never gonna be past this. Learn to take a joke.” 

Kraglin would very much like to say that he can take a joke, thank you very much; that in fact, he’s been the butt of them since he strolled on board. Sure, perhaps it’d been naive to hope that he’d be elevated to equal status once he’d earned his name. But right now he’s got a wind tunnel bored in his chest and has lost (by his reckoning) half the blood in his body, and the only things on his mind are comming Morlug and sleep. 

Kraglin says none of this – mostly because the next moment, the milling Ravagers part from the other direction, and everyone in the corridor remembers that they have a job to do elsewhere. Isla, Kraglin and Udonta are islands in a rushing river: Udonta with his hands in his pockets, staring disinterestedly at a vent in the overhead pipes; Isla subtly enticing Kraglin out of the oncoming Ravager’s path; Kraglin blearily wondering what the heck’s happening now. 

A pair of boots advance. They clomp to a close-heeled halt under Kraglin’s nose. Kraglin, with a fuzzy sort of clarity, remembers how he’d first encountered Morlug: brush in hand, soap fuzzing up her wrists, crouched over a stubborn shoe-scuff. His memory’s pretty sharp, and for some reason, it’s informing him that that scuff would fit perfectly beneath the boot that’s parked under his nose. 

“Lancia.” Isla looks up – Kraglin supposes that’s her surname: although why she shares it with one of the leading merchants in Xandar’s bustling refugee district, he has no idea. 

“Howdy sir,” she says, smiling. From his angle, it looks more like a grimace. But perhaps that’s the light. “How’s life?” 

“Excellent. Being first mate is certainly invigorating.” Udonta scoffs. Dagada swings to face him, blinking. “Oh. Udonta – I didn’t see you there.” 

It’s petty. It’s stupid. It’s so obviously just to get a rise out of Udonta – and judging by the unpleasant smile creeping onto Udonta’s face, it’s working. And really, truly, Kraglin just wants to go to bed. 

”’Scuse me,” he says. Udonta’s mouth, readying to spit some incendiary insult, snaps shut. Dagada – the yellow guy who’s chopped off his jacket’s sleeves at the shoulder to show off a host of scar-embellished tattoos, which Kraglin refuses to admit are just the tiniest bit cool – turns slowly. His heel creaks over the lumpy cross-stitched wires of the grate. 

“And you are?” 

“He ain’t nobody,” says Isla quickly. “Getting named tomorrow, in fact. But he’s injured pretty bad. We’re supposed to be haulin' his ass to bunk, so –“ 

“I’m sure someone of lower rank could handle… this,” Dagada cuts in, scanning Kraglin from his Mohawk to his unpolished bootcaps. Whatever the results of his assessment, they’re not complimentary. “You Isla, at least, must have something important to be doing.” 

From a distance, Dagada cuts a pretty decent figure; all burly and golden and slathered in painted flames. However, once that space closes, this impression starts to falter. His eyes are a cold grey, the iris devoid of any blue or silver. Just lusterless circles; no colorful flecks, no hints of tone. Dead eyes. Eyes of a blind man or a corpse. They don’t seem fitting for a guy who’s nicknamed _Detonator_. 

Kraglin meets them with the dull stagnation of the bone-tired. If he didn’t have a hole in his lung and a tube in his armpit, he might've been afraid; as it is, all he can dredge up is irritation at the big goon blocking the corridor. “No biggie,” he says. “I’ll just walk myself.” He leaves off the ‘sir’ in a moment of spite, deciding he can blame it on medication-daze if Dagada gets offended – he sure seems the type. Then he scoots past Dagada, and continues on his way. 

Udonta bursts out laughing. 

Isla at least attempts to corpse quietly, although she doesn’t do an especially good job. Dagada freezes, stunned – unfortunately, not for long enough to let Kraglin escape. When his voice blares, it’s louder than the alarm on his chronometer – 

“Rookie! Back here! Now!” 

Offence it is. Kraglin congratulates himself on an accurate character-read, and lopes lopsidedly towards them, being sure to give the still-cackling Udonta a flat look which contains a little too much mirth around the eyes. 

”What?” he whines. Then, after deeming a long enough pause has passed to deliver insult– “Sir?” 

Dagada just looks at him. 

He would be formidable, but it’s hard to take any threat seriously when Udonta’s snickering in the background. There’s something infectious about it – not least because Udonta spends half his time acting like the big scary space pirate he is and the other half more akin to a hyperactive and filthy-minded kid, which by itself is inherently amusing. But Kraglin’s done enough tempting fate for a lifetime; the last thing he wants to do is take sides in a bid for captaincy. And so he sags, making himself look every bit the worn-out patient – 

“Sorry, sir. I ain’t used to this title-stuff yet.” 

“We ain’t the Nova Corps,” Udonta corrects him, wiping his eyes. “Only ‘sirs’ here are earned ones.” 

“It’s a sign of respect,” grits Dagada. “One you would do well to learn.” 

Okay. Kraglin might not want to take sides. But damn, if he doesn’t _like_ Udonta a whole lot more. He nods in placating agreement. “Right-o, sir. If that’s that, can I fuck off now?” 

Dagada’s expression darkens further. Thankfully, Kraglin's impending doom is diverted – by Isla, this time. “He’s still high as a kite,” she says, glowering at Kraglin with a look that clearly reads ‘you’ll be quiet if you know what’s good for you’. “Ain’t no point in dragging a drugged-up rookie to the brig, is there?” 

From the sneer on Dagada’s face, he’s tempted to try. “Yet, if you and Udonta have deigned him the presence of your company, perhaps his punishment could be a lesson to all of you.” 

Kraglin shrinks a bit inside. Shit. He hadn’t even considered – 

“You kiddin’ me?” Udonta says. He scoffs through his teeth like Dagada’s told a bad joke. “Kid ain’t got a name yet. Doc asked Isla to drag him to his bunk cause she was getting her hand looked at, then I saw her and tagged along. As if we’d give two shits about him.” Dagada stalks into Udonta’s space. He utilizes every millimeter of the inch he has on him to loom. From the crook of Udonta’s eyebrow, he’s unimpressed. From the artery ticking in Dagada’s neck, he knows it. “So you wouldn’t object if I were to strap him up and whip him here and now?” 

Udonta smiles sweetly. As sweetly as he can. It’s not especially sweet, to look at or to smell, but it gets the point across. “Be my guest,” he says. “I always knew you were a kinky fucker.” Aw shit. Dagada snarls. Before he can work up a reply though, Udonta’s sticking his chin up in a way that makes him grow a whole meter, dwarfing Dagada in fury alone, and hisses in his face – “You weren’t expecting me to call you ‘sir’ too, were you? C’mon, Dags. Even you ain’t that stupid.” 

Kraglin sees Dagada’s fists clench, and has a sudden awful premonition of Udonta’s arrow embedding itself in the Xandarian’s skull. Dang. He’s already cleaned up one murder. With his chest in the state it is, he doesn’t think he’s got the strength to lug Dagada to an airlock. Surprisingly though, Dagada’s the one to break their deadlocked stare. "You’re not worth it,” he says. Then – of course – has to elaborate. “First mate’s next in line to be captain, after all. I wouldn’t want to get myself demoted over a moment of idiocy.” 

For someone who’s just made that jab, Dagada doesn’t have much of a brain on him, either. 

Udonta stares at Dagada for a long moment, eyes magma pools. The Xandarian’s started to sweat; his cruel smile is twitching with the strain of holding itself in place. Nervously flexing his upheld arm – which by now, is noticeably stiff – Kraglin judges the distance to the nearest airlock and bites down a groan. But the whistle he’s expecting never comes. 

“You ain’t worth it neither,” says Udonta quietly. Kraglin can smell Dagada’s relief; animal and odorous, belied by the feral slant of his jaw. “Now get outta here, before I change my mind.” 

Dagada postures a moment longer. But really, there’s no standing up to Udonta. Not when he gets like this. Not when you know how much damage a single whistle could do. He retreats, but not without a snarl – “This isn’t the end of this, scum.” 

“Watch me piss my boots,” says Udonta. His smile’s creeping back, lividly victorious, and Kraglin feels himself emulating it. Dagada’s lips roll back from a set of square, tombstone teeth, furrier than usual Ravager fare and just a little too big for his face. He includes all three of them in his parting glare. 

“That’s it,” Udonta mutters under his breath as he marches away. “Run to mummy.” Kraglin’s just glad he doesn’t shout it at Dagada’s shrinking back. 

Really, he should keep his distance. Thank Udonta and Isla for their company, but politely request that he make the remainder of the journey to his quarters on his lonesome, because while he may be in danger of tripping and re-collapsing his lung, the probability of becoming embroiled in fatal skirmishes with the Ravager High Command is significantly higher when they’re around. Udonta’s obviously involved in… _something_ , something pertaining to Dagada and Jora and a soon-to-be-vacated captaincy. And _sure_ , Kraglin could put the pieces together if he thought about it hard enough. Doesn’t take much effort. But if he does so, that’ll make it real, and that’ll make him a _knowing_ collaborator instead of just an accidental one. 

_Yes,_ he thinks. _Innocence through ignorance._ He doubts it’d hold up in a Nova court – but heck, they ain’t on Xandarian soil no more. 

So when Udonta and Isla walk him all the way to his dorm’s door, claiming they’ve got business with the supply rooms on the same level, he doesn’t protest. “I’ll see you tomorrow, I guess?” he says. Isla nods. Udonta shrugs. “Alright. Um. G’night.” 

“Night, Kraglin,” Udonta says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Ho hum. Not sure I like this chappie much. Ah well. Hope you enjoyed! And thanks so much for all the comments you've been leaving - I can't express how much they cheer me up. You're an amazing bunch, and I love entertaining you!**


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin meets Jora, has A Crisis, and prays for an angel.**

Kraglin’s first impression of the captain is that she’s old. His second impression is that this in no way sabotages her ability to strike terror into the hearts of Ravager novices, and his third is that this is a fact of which she is well aware.

“Who the fuck are you?” she barks when he steps on the Bridge, coat looking almost-ironed after a night spent pressed under his mattress. And then, before he can answer – “And the fuck’s wrong with your chest?” 

Kraglin swallows air. He’s suddenly very aware of his heartbeat. “Uh, which one d'you want me to answer first…?” 

He’s rescued by Isla; she stumps the length of the Bridge, clearing Ravagers from her path with a few well-placed elbows, and settles her arm around Kraglin’s hips. She can’t reach any higher, he supposes, but it still makes the squeeze she gives him awkwardly intimate. 

“This ‘uns one of mine. Name’s Kraglin… Kraglin Obfon-something. Petty crime guy, good at spotting Nova patrols, pickin’ pockets, and gettin’ into trouble. Thrabba scouted him out a month back – I reckon he’s sharp enough to Nav.” The captain sniffs, unimpressed. Isla’s smile widens. “And he’s got his arm hoisted up like a goddam loon because Udonta shot him.” 

That catches her interest. Jora gives him a proper look. Her eyes are folded between a thousand yellow wrinkles, but they’re as sharp and cold as sniper scopes. Kraglin straightens under them without meaning to, and is glad that the metal rafters aren’t low enough for him to crack his head on. Appraisal completed, Jora blows out her sallow cheeks and marches to take her seat: a throne of sculpted red metal that’s got pride of place before the massive glass pane. She folds into it with a barely-audible creak. 

“He’ll do,” she tells the nebula drifting across her vision. “Give him the rundown. And tell him that if he smacks anyone with that arm he’s back on scrubs.” 

Isla nudges Kraglin and winks. “You heard her. C’mon, Krags – let’s getcha set up.” 

“Where’s Udonta?” Kraglin thinks to ask, once he and Isla are on the nav-platform. Three-dimensional starscapes stretch around them. The immediate holograms are bright as rocket jets, but they fade like the residue of a plasma blast before they reach five meters away, peach-golds and rich nebula-blues dimming back to black. They’re incarcerated in a cage of light; it responds to the flutters of Isla’s fingers, fracturing and reforming around them to isolate neighboring systems; zoom in, zoom out; plot routes for energy efficiency and time. 

Isla crooks her pinky, exploding the nearest bright dot into a diagram of a solar system. The light splits around her digit as if it's a brown prism. “He’s cleaning the bogs,” she says. “Dagada’s revenge. Be grateful the Detonator couldn’t be bothered to track you through your medbay record, or you’d be right there with him.” 

Kraglin tries not to let himself look disappointed. Isla sniggers. 

“Aw, ya hoping you’d catch up with your girl Morlug if ya were on scrubs? How romantic! Date night uncloggin' the lavs in Horuz’s dorm – you poor fuckers.” 

“I told you, we’re just friends.” It comes out stiff. Isla’s shove is teasing, but when she speaks, it’s serious. 

“And that’s the way it'll stay. Sure, fuck her if you want – although knowin' Morlug, you might not have no luck on that front. Heck, you can fuck _Dagada_ for all I care. But I got to tell you… Ravagers and relationships ain’t exactly made for one another.” 

She doesn’t need to say anymore. Kraglin nods, and focuses on aligning their light-speed trajectory with the safebelt around the next star cluster.Of course. He’s only been part of the crew a month – it’s not like he’s looking to propose to anyone. But Isla’s words, however lightly spoken, are sobering. A dash of dark reality added to his jubilation at discovering a talent for course-plotting that even he’d doubted would manifest (not that he’s bad with maps or anything. No matter what Udonta says.) 

If he stays here, he’s never going to settle down. He’s never gonna find someone to grow old with, if only because he’s unlikely to grow old himself. Kraglin no longer has any pretenses about his own mortality – the tube in his chest and his aching arm pay testament to that. And hell. He’s only nineteen. Nearly twenty, but nevertheless. He likes to fuck and hasn’t in quite some time (Udonta doesn’t count; he can’t remember it, and anyway, it was _Udonta_ ). He’s never held down a girlfriend for more than six weeks; he picks his nose sometimes when he’s alone; and the thought of commitment is as terrifying as the prospect of honest employment. But to not have that chance, to not have that choice… 

Dammit. Kraglin hasn’t thought of his retirement cottage in over a fortnight. Now, for some reason, he can’t get it out of his head. His fingers shake where they’re dug into the hologram. There’s a nauseating lurch as the star map shrinks to pinpricks and whirls violently to the left. 

“Woah, woah! Watch it!” Isla grabs his wrists, preventing him from fucking up further. “You’re lucky I disconnected us from the engine-feed. Sheesh, rookie. You coulda piloted us into a star!” 

“Kraglin,” Kraglin corrects shakily. He stares at his hands, swimming over with bright speckles, and has the oddest sensation that they don’t belong to him. 

What is he doing here? On a Ravager Bridge – the Bridge of the armada’s flagship galleon, of all places? Learning how to navigate? Enjoying himself? Under the supervision of Captain Jora herself? He’s supposed to be laying low, for fuck’s sake. He’s supposed to vanish into the hubbub of a satellite-port in under two weeks. Not… not make connections. Not make friends, not collect people who he’ll miss. He’d expected his time on the _Eclector_ to be unpleasant: a trial-by-fire that would deliver him to his shiny, clean-wiped slate. Not a clean slate in itself. 

Damn it all. 

Kraglin clenches his fists, the signal for the holo-tracking program to disengage. He backs away from the platform, his arm bumping painfully into the tube as he hops off the step. Isla slides into the vacated place, scrunching her eyebrows in silent question. Her piercings glimmer under the flicker of a thousand resettling stars. 

“Sorry,” Kraglin says uselessly. “I… I can’t do this.” 

Isla looks confused. “It's just a little mistake, Krags. Nothing to fash yerself over. Heck, you shoulda seen me first time I nav’d. Captain nearly strangled me herself.” He can’t do this. He can’t shunt this conversation onto their usual plane of casual banter, telling her _the fault of the student is the fault of the teacher_ , etcetera etcetera… He can’t. 

“Loo break,” he forces out, and sprints for the exit. 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin runs to the nearest bog-block, finds a cubicle designed for folks of his basic biological functions, and locks himself in. He’s breathing too shallow and too fast; the tube in his armpit whistles like a blocked nose and his eyesight’s gone all giddy. _Get a hold of yourself_ , he thinks. _No time for a mental breakdown._

But when is there ever? And hell, he certainly can’t go back on the Bridge in this state. Kraglin pushes his back against the door and slides down until he’s sat on his heels – he’s seen the state of these floors; he’s not far-gone enough to park his ass on that. Then he drops his head into his hands and refuses to cry. 

He refuses to cry for ten whole minutes. 

Then Kraglin wipes his eyes, stands, and blows his nose noisily on his sleeve. The toilet bowl in front of him is bare metal, grey and lidless, liable to freeze the asscheeks off of anyone who can’t hold a squat. It funnels into the engine core, delivering waste to the matter-converters – efficient, if stinky for the unfortunate soul who has to climb down and unclog the chute twice a year. While he’s here Kraglin figures he might as well put it to good use. He unzips, aims, and noisily pisses over stained dry steel. Then tucks himself back in, wipes his eyes again, and flushes. 

…Perhaps that was the wrong order. Oh well. Kraglin’s got bigger things on his mind than pink-eye. He’s got to leave the Ravagers, and soon. He’s already in too deep. The _Eclector_ ’s cramped holds aren’t registering as ‘alien’ and ‘dangerous’ any more. Home has become a cot in a bunk-stack, a pillow that’s as bereft of stuffing as his mattress, and a blanket that smells of sour milk. Purpose has become the steady splash and slide of his mop over the floor. Family has become... 

Family has become… 

Kraglin swallows stickily, and pulls up his fly. You don’t have no family, he reminds himself. Never have done; never will. What use is family anyway? Buncha folks who rely on you and slow you down in a fight. He doesn’t need that. He doesn’t want that. 

Mind made up, Kraglin wipes his face once again before stepping out of the cubicle, just in case someone’s snuck in while he was distracted with Not Crying. Then he pushes open the door. 

Or at least, he tries to. 

Doors on the _Eclector_ operate… weirdly. A couple are automatic: the hangar doors, the mess, the weapons stores. One particular hangar entrance is so hyperactive that it’s colloquially referred to as ‘the chomper’, due to an unfortunate incident involving a rookie’s fingers and lots of screaming. At the opposite end of the spectrum, you have the sliding gates of the cage lift – clunky, unwieldy mechanisms which require an application of approximately twice Kraglin’s bodyweight to shift. Then there’s the doors with locking panels. They’re immovable fire-proof slabs, designed to isolate single compartments or block off entire wings of the ship altogether in event of a hull breach; rugged, rusty, and as thick as the barricades between rooms. Kraglin likes those best. They swing open a sliver to show they’ve unlocked. Booting them the rest of the way is endlessly satisfying. 

Only problem is, sometimes they stick. 

He presses his palm to the scanner again. Again, there’s no buzz; no hum of warm mechanics. The door remains an immovable monolith. Kraglin, who had been operating under the assumption that this day could not possibly get any worse, squeezes his eyes tight shut and decides that the only option remaining is to bang his forehead on the panel until it either it responds or he knocks himself unconscious. 

“Fuck,” he mumbles, rubbing his traitorously drippy nose. “Fuck, fuck, fuck.” 

The bog block stinks of stale piss. It’s something you notice when you imagine that you’ll only be in there for the duration of a slash and a Not-Cry, but ultimately accept. When you face the possibility of being trapped until someone complains about the additional reek of rot, the smell becomes rather more repugnant. 

Kraglin wants out of here. He wants out of here now. He’s had his sappy moment. He’s over it. He wants to march to his place on the Bridge and set to destroying whatever good rapport he and Isla have cultivated. He wants to fill his head with the dreams of a quaint and quiet life spent evading taxes on the far edges of galactic civilization, away from booby-trapped tombs and deadly bunkmates and excitement and adventure of every sort. 

But the door remains unresponsive, to swearing and pleading alike. Kraglin inhales sour ammonia, presses his hand over his heart, and starts to pray. 

“Dear God. Gods. Ancients. Creators, whatever. If you exist, I’d really appreciate not having t'haunt a toilet for the rest of eternity. Please, please, get me out of here. Scupper the ship. Make all mechanisms spontaneously malfunction. I really don’t care. Heck, send an angel if you wanna, just –“ 

The main entrance to the bogs slams open with so much force that, for a moment, Kraglin thinks his first suggestion has been taken seriously. Then there’s the sound of two voices – two very familiar voices – questioning whether they’ve already been through. 

“I say we have,” says Morlug. Udonta, however, is adamant. 

“Your nose drop off, girl? Get a whiff of that and tell me it’s seen disinfectant in the past decade.” There’s a brief silence. Then – “Shit, I think I broke the door.” 

“Well, if you didn’t insist on _kickin'_ every one we come across,” Morlug starts. 

“It’s stress relief!” 

“C’mon, _I’m_ the one who’s been on scrub every other day since I first _joined_ –“ 

“Only because ya don’t know when to shut your mouth!” 

“Oh, like you’re one to talk!” 

“Thank you, thank you, thank you,” whispers Kraglin. Then, out loud – “Uh, guys?” 

“Hey, I treat Dagada the same way he treats me. _You_ just treat him the same as you treat everyone else, then get pissy when he punishes you for it...” 

“Udonta,” says Morlug quietly. Kraglin can imagine her eyes flicking along rows of empty cubicles. “Did you hear that?” 

“Hear what?” 

Kraglin clears his throat. “Guys? It’s me.” 

“That,” Morlug says, somewhat redundantly. “Rookie? That you?” 

“Yeah,” he says, through the wall. He can hear Morlug’s steps approaching, and gives the pad one last valiantly hopeful thump. “I think I’m stuck.” 

Morlug doesn’t laugh. Much. He appreciates that. He holds no such fond feelings for Udonta, who makes his opinion on the matter known loudly, uproariously, and without relent. Yeah. They’re not the nicest angels. Or the prettiest. But right now, Kraglin’ll take what he can get. He’s so grateful that, for a moment, all attempts at withdrawing from them are forgotten. 

“Hey there,” he says to Morlug as he squeezes to freedom through the gap they’ve managed to pry, breath sucked in and arm stuck out perpendicular to avoid catching on his tube. “Haven’t seen you in a while. Forget to come visit me in hospital?” He ignores Udonta, who’s still sniggering as he leans on the mop wedged in the open door. 

Morlug’s smile is shy and sweet. Her mouth, however is not – “Don’t flatter yourself, greenie. You ain’t all that.” Then she pauses, and admits – “I got stuck in a supply closet on the middecks over my lunchbreak.” 

“See?” Kraglin tells Udonta. “Happens to everyone. Might be you next.” Any plan to trap Udonta in a loo cubicle is abandoned though, as the man strokes his glowing arrowshaft. 

“Will it, now?” 

Yeah, yeah. He’s good at threats. Kraglin grumbles and stands down. “Alright. You’ve had your fun. Can we get outta here and never talk of this again?” 

Udonta and Morlug share incredulous gazes. 

“Not likely,” says Udonta. As if Kraglin’d be that lucky. Udonta whips the mop free, the door jamming closed with a finger-crunching crash, and turns to the cleaning cart to find an out-of-order sign. Then pauses. Looks at Kraglin’s face. Frowns. “Rookie?” 

Are his eyes red? Kraglin freezes. “What?” 

Udonta stares at him a moment longer. Then shakes his head and buries his hands in the miscellaneous mound of rags and scrub-equipment they’ve piled their trolley with. “Nah. S'nothing.” 

“Ain’t you forgetting something?” Morlug calls after Kraglin when he turns to leave. She looks sweaty and worn, her purple hair pinned under a black bandana with spaghetti-like strands drooping over her face. There’s a mop in each hand though, and she levels one at him like she’s sighting a shot. “I can’t keep calling ya 'greenie' forever, can I?” 

And this is exactly what he’d hoped to avoid. 

Kraglin’s stomach sinks. “I… I don’t…” he starts. Morlug gives the mop head an expert flick; dirty water splatters his pantleg. 

“Whassup? Forgotten your own name?” 

“No, no, it’s just…” Squeezing his fists, Kraglin takes a moment to compose himself. He stands at his full height, shoulders spiked beneath the Ravager coat, and looks down his nose at the closest thing to a friend he has. “I don’t think this is a good idea,” he tells her. 

Morlug lowers the mop. Hurt flits across her expression like the pulse of a quasar. But then she smothers it. Kraglin’s chest fills with gnawing worms, and he almost looks away. It’s wrong to see her like this: stripping away embarrassment and upset, replacing them with cold-forged anger, uncaring and harsh, layer-on-layer. But it’s also necessary. He hardens himself to it, as she does to him. 

“Yeah?” she sneers, resting heavily on the mop handle in a way Kraglin remembers doing, barely a month before. Strange, how that day seems so long ago. “So that’s how it’s gonna be. You get one Bridge shift, and you’re too good to be seen with me.” 

_It’s not like that at all_ , Kraglin wants to protest. _I don’t want to be a non-expendable. Not to you._ Not to Isla or Udonta either, although they already know his name. Morlug at least is salvageable. So he just scowls and shrugs. 

“Think what ya want.” 

Morlug’s expression doesn’t crumple. She doesn’t swear at him, or even hiss – but the swing of the mop towards his chest speaks louder than words ever could. 

His very tender chest. His very tender chest – which was, not two nights ago, busy being impaled on a radioactive arrow. Kraglin jumps back, already knowing he’s not going to be fast enough. The mop swings towards him, slow motion, promising agony. 

Then it cleaves in two, neat as a guillotine-slice. The blood thundering in Kraglin’s ears was loud enough to drown out the first whistle. But he catches the second: a low trill that has Udonta’s arrow swinging like a boomerang mid-air and shooting to its sheathe. Kraglin, off-balance, stumbles over his boots and winds up ass down in a dubious-smelling puddle, cussing the demise of his last pair of clean pants. Morlug blinks the glow from her eyes. She stares blankly at the shattered mop handle. Then flings it at the trolley and storms out. 

Kraglin watches her go. Udonta, stood to one side, watches him. 

“That weren’t nice,” he says. Kraglin miserably draws his knees up to his chest, ignoring the dampness percolating his trousers. 

“I ain’t nice,” he answers. “You might have noticed.” 

Udonta concedes the point with a nod. “Alright. So yer a mouthy bastard. But you ain’t one hundred percent a dick. That?” He points after Morlug, who’s left an angry trail of splashes through the puddles on the floor. “Dick move.” Any other time, he might have been joking, but there’s no humor in his gaze now. Kraglin’s mind flashes, inexplicably, to the first time he was caught stealing pencils from the slum’s under-aqueduct school, and had been stood up in front of the class to explain his actions to a bunch of brats poorer than he was. He hangs his head. “Kraglin?” 

Swallowing, Kraglin drops his mobile arm to fiddle with the clumpy knots in his bootlaces. “Yeah?” he mumbles. 

Udonta leans on the jammed door, arms folded, and treats him to an inscrutable glare. “Ya want her to think you’re an a-hole? Fine. But don’t ever think that trick’ll work on me.” 

The clamminess seeping through the seams of his leather pants is quite noticeable now. Kraglin shifts in discomfort. “Yessir,” he says, and means it. 

Udonta studies him for another long breath, the pathetic wheeze of Kraglin’s tube all the more conspicuous in the silence. 

“Get up,” he says eventually. Kraglin obeys, too fast, lurching like a drunk Knowhere-lizard. “Come here.” He does so. Manages not to fall over himself in the process. He stops a few paces in front of Udonta, still half-lodged in the mind of a naughty schoolboy, and tugs his belt up his hips to unstick a sodden wadge of fabric from his ass. 

“What d’you want?” he croaks. Focuses on the prickle of stubble around Udonta’s deadly mouth, because it’s easier than meeting his eyes. Thankfully, Udonta tells him straight – 

“For you to cut the crap and tell me what’s going on.” 

Heck. That’s a demand and a half. Kraglin wouldn’t know where to begin. “So there was this necklace that the Cartel wanted…” he tries. Udonta clicks his tongue off his teeth. 

“I don’t give two shits about your tragic past! Tell me what’s wrong now, so I can sort it out.” 

It’s such a blunt declaration, so brutally simplistic and blindingly stupid. Anyone else, he’d dismiss it as meaningless words. But here, faced with Udonta’s unwavering glower, red ringing his pupils like the corona around twin supernovae, Kraglin doesn’t doubt for a minute that he will live up to this promise. Whether through cunning, fortitude, or sheer bloody stubbornness, Udonta is going to fix this. 

Kraglin pares his dilemma down to its bare ores. “I want to leave,” he whispers. “But I want to stay.” 

Udonta nods. “So, ya want me to make a hash job of convincing you? Or do I just take the choice away?” 

Kraglin’s air stutters in his throat. The tube blows a soft raspberry. What the hell is Udonta saying? Is he actually trying to suggest…? 

…Well, it would be kinda nice, wouldn’t it? Not having to blame himself for this. Not more vacillation, no more fretting over this whole fucking dulcarnoun of a dilemma. The path Udonta’s opened up for him goes against every instinct, but it gleams tantalizingly bright. 

Desperate, he nods. And just like that, it’s over. 

“You ain’t going nowhere,” Udonta says. It’s spoken with such certainty that Kraglin couldn’t disobey if he wanted to. The threat he tags on is half-hearted, said more out of habit than necessity – “And if you do, I’ll come after ya and finish the job.” He raps Kraglin’s shoulder, avoiding the worst of the damage. It’s still hard enough to make his chest-wound sing – but Kraglin is too busy sagging with relief to notice. 

He ain’t going nowhere. 

No more conflict. No more running. 

_He ain’t going nowhere._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **:Pops champagne bottle: Guess who finished BIOTS? It's tailed off at aroooound 100 000 words, so we've still got a way to go~ :P**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **In celebration, I'm gonna fill some more prompts and make some fanart over on the write-like-an-american tumblr. Think I might illustrate this fic too~ It'll give me a chance to practice drawing clothes (the main reason I draw so much nsfw is because I hate fabric creases. Honest.)**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ********
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****So yeaaaaah; drop me a comment, tell me if you want to give Kraggles a hug, etc., etc., etc...****
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ********


	16. Chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Udonta tries his hands at hair-styling and almost kills Kraglin. Again.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **After going on about this moment in 'What Doesn't Kill You' and 'TRGTGL', I figured I'd better, y'know, actually write it.**

“What do I do now?” he asks Udonta meekly, once he’s splashed water on his face and feels like a person again, as opposed to a damp sack of shit.

Udonta boggles at him. “Hell if I know?” Kraglin flinches. Hears him sigh. “I ain’t taking over your life, rookie. Haven’t the time or the patience.” He pauses. “And, that’s kinda creepy.” He makes a valid point. Embarrassed, Kraglin dips his hands under the cool of the tap and smooths down his Mohawk until the person in the mirror looks presentable. 

Udonta huffs. “You pinkies and your hair.” 

This, Kraglin knows how to deal with. “You Kree and your crazy mass-murdering zealots,” he shoots back – then frowns at the expression on Udonta’s reflected blurry face. “What?” 

“Kree?” Whoops. Well he had been thinking it was odd; Kree might be advanced, but he didn’t think they’d developed sound-responsive arrows yet. Udonta’s expression isn’t exactly amused or irritated, hovering somewhere between the two – so Kraglin sets to explaining himself. 

“Well… you’re… blue?” 

Udonta’s eyebrows cinch until he grows a dent in the middle of his forehead. “Ya think I’m Kree because I’m _blue_?” 

Heck, he’s never laid claim to being politically correct. “It’s an honest enough mistake!” Kraglin argues. “I’m Nova, remember? Ain’t met all that many non-Kree blue folks, that’s all.” Udonta’s shaking his head at him. “What?” 

“Just wondering how I lost that bet, that’s all.” 

Kraglin scoffs. “You bet on four hours.” 

“Yeah, I ain’t forgotten.” 

“…Oh.” He scrapes his Mohawk over to one side, frowns at it, and recombs it to the center. He pulls the tin of gel out of his pocket, a shiny indulgent thing that he’d lifted from a stall at the station where Isla’d thrown that fateful party which, after a fortnight in Kraglin’s jacket, has dulled to grubby grey. Rubbings of dried gel dribble from under its lid like dags around a sheep’s ass. He scrubs them loose, unscrews the cap and sets to slicking himself up. Udonta watches in almost-fascination. And… Well, he owes him something. Kraglin smiles at him, tentative, and holds out the pot. “You, uh. Wanna…?” 

He regrets it five minutes later. “That’s. Hm. Interesting.” Udonta, washing his gel-sticky hands under the tap and scowling at the residue gumming up his nail beds, turns a wounded glare on him. 

“You don’t like it?” 

“No, no, s'lovely. Just…” Kraglin pokes at the ridiculous three inch Mohican pronging up from the top of his head like a dorsal fin, and shapes the face beneath it into something other than horror. “I already have to duck to get through doors, y’know?” It’s a feeble excuse. And Udonta knows it. But his frown morphs into a snicker, and the not-Kree leans over and scrumples Kraglin’s hair into a bedridden muss. Kraglin groans around his laugh. “Hell, if this sets…” 

“You’re gonna look very freshly fucked,” Udonta tells him, grin sharp and devilish and... 

…And entirely kissable. 

Kraglin’s next words die in his mouth. The pause is very, very nearly awkward. He did not just think that. He did not. 

He is, for some reason, holding up his hand like he’s about to cup Udonta’s jaw. 

“Um,” says Udonta. Kraglin jerks away. 

“I oughta…” 

“You oughta head back to Bridge.” 

“Isla’ll kill me if I don’t…” 

“Damn right.” 

Neither of them step back. “This is a really bad idea,” Udonta mutters. Kraglin can’t tell which of them he’s trying to convince. But if he keeps talking like that, one of them’s going to remember that the door to the bogs isn’t locked, or that this whole place stinks of gastric gas and Shorro’s digested cooking, or that neither of them are expert practitioners of dental hygiene. It’s on Kraglin to take initiative. He settles his hand around the back of Udonta’s neck – Udonta side-eyeing his arm like he’s not quite sure what it’s doing there. Then he darts in, quick as a snake, and kisses him. 

“Mmf –“ 

That noise is the first hint that this might not have been the best idea. The second is the knee that bounces sharply into his groin, and the third is the whistle. 

Kraglin, chest protesting as he hacks up sour spit, almost falls. He manages to lock his knees before he runs himself through – _again_ – on Udonta’s arrow. Which is flickering an inch in front of his nose. Also again. 

“I thought we were past this!” he wails, once he’s certain opening his mouth won’t invoke vomit. Fuck, that hurts. Fuck, fuck, fuck. Like boiling water’s pouring into his stomach backwards. His hands are squeezed between his thighs, and he stands at a half-squat that’s the closest he can get to the fetal position without curling on the floor. 

“The fuck d’you think you’re doing?” Udonta yells back, backed against the sinks. His arrow blazes brighter, so fierce that Kraglin has to squint to prevent temporary blindness. “You wanna eat a higher life form, ya go find someone who ain’t been named yet! Fuck!” 

Kraglin lifts his blotchy red face, eyes scrunched as his crotch informs him that Udonta’s patella is forged from vibranium. “Eat?” he gasps. “ _Eat?_ What the fuck? What the _fuck_ are you talkin' about?” 

“You!” Udonta punctuates with a jab of the arrow. Kraglin holds his ground, in too much pain to contemplate ducking, and Udonta has to whistle again so that he doesn’t spear him in the forehead. “You were gonna _bite me,_ you freak –“ 

Oh, this is enough. Kraglin glares past the arrow and hisses through trembling lips – “I was tryin' to _kiss_ you! Fuck!” He spots the stupefied set to Udonta’s mouth. “Are you kidding me? How can you not know what a kiss is?” 

Udonta growls and spins away, stomping through the puddles and dictating his speech to the sloped roof. “Course I fucking have! I ain’t retarded! But we’re Ravagers! Ain’t like Ravagers go around kissing each other, is it?” 

That’s… true. The fight folds out of Kraglin. Excellent. He’s committed himself to a ship where crew are more likely to try and eat each other than make out. 

“Udonta,” he says. 

“Call me Yondu,” Udonta spits. “Ya just _kissed_ me, I think we’ve reached that stage.” 

“Yondu then.” He struggles upright, one arm pushed forwards so it doesn’t bump his tube, and tries not to wince too noticeably as his bruised bollocks resettle. The arrow hums, but doesn’t react. Kraglin’s gotten a hell of a lot better at apologizing over the last month, but most of the time it’s been insincere; it takes him a while to generate a genuine tone. “I shoulda asked beforehand, I guess. I’m… I’m sorry?” 

Yondu snorts, back still turned. But the arrow retreats to its holster with a brusque whistle, allowing Kraglin to breathe (as easy as is possible with a punctured lung) once more. “Whatever,” he says. “Just don’t do it again.” 

No kissing. He can handle that. Kraglin bobs his head. “Gotcha. Uh.” The question’s on his tongue; but how does one begin to ask? “What about… the other… stuff?” 

Yondu spares him a flat look. “The other stuff.” 

“The other stuff,” Kraglin affirms. His ears, for some reason, are getting hot. 

Yondu’s frown looks like it’s struggling to maintain itself. “We’ll see.” 

Isn’t pretending that the other person’s naked meant to stop you blushing? Perhaps this is the wrong situation. Kraglin coughs into his fist. “Tonight?” 

“Next week?” Yondu offers instead. Nods to Kraglin’s busted chest – “After your lungs ain’t gonna deflate if I fuck you too hard?” 

Kraglin... really should have considered that. Both the tube-issue, and the potential for him to be fuckee. “About that,” he says. Coughs again, although his airways are so clear that his inhalations scratch. “I ain’t really… I don’t think…” 

“Aw,” Yondu mocks. He props his hands on his hips and cants forwards so that the watery yellow light outlines… well, everything. Stupid leather pants. “You scared?” 

Just a little. Like hell is he going to admit it though. “Of your cock? As if!” 

Yondu smirks to himself. “Good. Cause fair’s fair.” 

Is that what this is about? Shaking his head, Kraglin assumes a similar position. “Hey, that don’t count. I don’t even remember!” 

“Yeah, well my ass sure did the next morning. Call it payback.” 

Kraglin remembers he’d been tender too, if in a different area. And the distinct lack of anything in his pockets that could have been used for lubricant. And the various dark insinuations that ‘payback’ might contain. “Y-you don’t mean…” 

Udonta, taken aback at the sudden tremor in his voice, puckers his eyebrows like Kraglin’s a particularly infuriating jigsaw. “What don’t I mean?” 

Kraglin swallows. “Is it gonna hurt?” He can’t meet Udonta’s eyes. There’s silence. Then a noisy sigh. 

“Damn, what sorta nonsense are you filling your head with? I don’t go round fucking folks dry.” The way he says that is… well, rather accusatory. Bristling is the easiest way of banishing lingering embarrassment. Kraglin latches onto this escape with eagerness. 

“I was drunk!” he protests. “You were drunk! Everybody was drunk! And you tried to _murder_ me the next morning! Ain’t that payback enough?” 

“’ _Payback’_? That’s what you’re hung up on?” Yondu laughs, and Kraglin curses him for being so quick on the uptake. “If I was looking for revenge, you’d be lying squished in some rich fuck’s burial mound right now.” Kraglin shrugs in moody acquiescence. He’s not enough of a sore loser to refuse to grant him that. Although Yondu doesn’t stop there: “… Or poisoned by Varra. Or whipped by Dagada. Or with an arrow through yer skull in a bed on that crappy lil’ supergiant satellite – if it ain’t too thick for my arrow to get through, that is.” 

Kraglin groans. “Alright, alright. I’m forever in your debt. Congratulations.” 

“Don’tcha forget it.” Udonta’s grin is easy and familiar. Kraglin can’t stay hostile when confronted with that – he relaxes, running his fingers through his scruffy thatch in a last-minute attempt to get it to lay flat, and grimaces at how pink the face in the mirror is. Life must be so much easier when your blood matches your skintone. 

“So, the lesson’s… What? Never take what you say seriously?” 

Yondu’s fingers brush his arrow. “Only if you’ve gotta deathwish.” Right. “Lesson’s for you not to live your life thinking everyone’s out to get you.” A beat. “Well. I ain’t. Can’t speak for anyone else.” 

Kraglin crooks up a corner of his mouth. “Better than nothing, I suppose.” He gives his hair one last pat, abandons it as a lost cause, and turns for the door. “I, uh, really should head for the Bridge. Or find Morlug.” 

“Good luck with that last one.” Deeming that their moment of… _whatever it was_ is over, Yondu heads for the cart and assesses his selection of solvents. He almost sounds sincere. Kraglin’s willing to take whatever well-wishing he can get – heaven knows he’ll need it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Short chappie! And another straight after - they're a day early because I'm going on holiday tomorrow, and might not be able to make the Saturday upload depending on whether I have internets... :sobs:**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Enjoy, and please leave me a comment!**
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	17. Chapter 17

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which the wild Morlug is appeased, Kraglin gets his tube out (not like that), and we prepare to advance into the second phase of the story.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Super-short little chapter. This is the final part of this main arc in BIOTS - next chappie starts the next big section! Hopefully this first bit's set the scene well enough for me to delve a bit deeper into the actual plotline. Hope you're all as excited as I am! xxx**

Knock, knock.

“Morlug?” 

“Go fuck yourself.” 

Pause. Breathe in. Breathe out. 

“Morlug, can I talk to you?” 

“Go fuck yourself on Udonta’s fucking arrow.” 

Swallow. Decide not to comment. 

“I’m gonna talk to you. Are you gonna listen?” 

“Go fuck yourself on Udonta’s arrow and light yourself on fire.” 

Right. Kraglin sighs and rests his good side on the wall next to the storage bunker. Morlug, ever the wizard with the _Eclector_ ’s temperamental hatches and panels, has squeezed into one of the supply closets and effectively barricaded herself in by pulling the circuits out of the opening mechanism. She’s got the know-how to put them all to rights again. Kraglin doesn’t. But he reckons he’s tenacious enough to make up for it – and thankfully, she didn’t have the foresight to realise that her fortress could also act as a prison. Right now, she’s only got two options – to listen, or come out and smack him. Both, Kraglin believes, are productive outcomes. 

“So, I said some shit that I didn’t mean,” he begins. 

“Go fuck yourself on Udonta’s arrow, light yourself on fire, and…” She trails off. Kraglin waits, then raps his knuckles on the wall besides his head. 

“You okay?” 

Morlug sniffs. “Just run out of insults.” 

“Oh.” Kraglin tries for encouraging. “Hey, you were doing really well until now. Not too inventive. But visual, y’know?” 

A wet snort. “Toss yourself in the engines.” 

“There! See?” There’s another quiet sniff. Kraglin sandwiches his ear to the wall and prays she isn’t crying. “Morlug? M'sorry.” 

“Nothing for you to be sorry about,” Morlug says. Her voice, however, contradicts; it’s snotty, stodgy, and far from stable. “S’the way the universe works, right? Everyone else’s out for themselves. Don’t see why you should act any different.” 

“I was just sayin' that crap, Morlug. None of it meant nothing.” He takes a breath. Decides to plough ahead. You never know: occasionally, honesty really is the best policy. “Look – I was scared, okay? I was scared. Because I thought I was gonna leave. I couldn’t have no good memories – good memories of you! – holding me back. Can ya understand that? Can ya at least try?” 

There’s a silence. Then – 

“Toss yourself in the engines and chop off your ballsack.” 

________________________________________ 

“- She told me to tie my balls around my neck and garrote myself, _but then_ she opened the door and punched me in the face, and I think that after that she felt a lot better.” 

Doc, swabbing the raw hole where the tube had sat with something that smells like it should be used to clean high-grade industrial equipment, rolls his eyes. Isla grunts in disbelief. “I’m gonna resurrect the betting pool if ya carry on like this.” 

Isla, at least, has forgiven him from skipping out on her mid-shift. He thinks she has, anyway. Although if she drops him off in Yondu’s bed again, she’s really only doing them favors. Kraglin waits until Doc’s finished then rolls onto his other side, feeling the entire gaunt panel of chest muscles protest, and forlornly presses his swollen cheek against the pillow. Morlug’s chipped one of his teeth. He’s a little bit proud, but in too much general pain to do much about it. He’s just glad he’s finished his final shift for the day. Eight blissful hours of downtime stretch between him and the next day-cycle. Kraglin intends to put them to use. 

By sleeping. That’s what he means. Definitely by sleeping. Because he’s not looking forwards to getting fucked by Yondu. Not one bit. Nope. Kraglin’s a doer, a giver; he doesn’t lay there and take it, and he absolutely doesn’t get hard at the thought of firm bulk pinning him down and calloused blue hands on his hips… 

…And perhaps this isn’t the best time to be entertaining those thoughts. Kraglin snaps his eyes shut, waits until he’s certain his breathing’s not picked up, and rolls himself slowly off the medical pallet. 

“You good?” Isla asks, distracted by a blip on her wristpiece. 

“Peachy,” says Kraglin. Lets his arm flop against his ribs for the first time in recent memory, and makes a stiff circle with his shoulder-socket. “Thanks for stopping by.” 

“No problem. Saw you wonderin' round with that puffy lip and figured I’d find out who’d put it there.” Ah, sweet Isla and her obsession with gossip. The woman’s a mine of Ravager-trivia that ranges from useless to blackmail-worthy. Which reminds him – 

“Uh, I know I ain’t s'posed to ask after people’s planets and stuff…” 

“That’s right,” Isla says. Hunches over her wristpiece and jabs its buttons with new ferocity. “Although I figure a ‘but’ is coming.” 

“It ain’t about you. I was wondering if you knew what Yondu – what Udonta is?” 

That has Isla glancing up. “Udonta?” 

“Yeah.” 

“Ya don’t know?” Okay, is there some secret he’s missing out on? Kraglin gnaws his lip, catches the scab by accident, and regrets it. 

“No? I mean, he said he weren’t Kree, but there’s a lotta blue folks out there and I ain’t too great with species recognition, so…” Isla snaps the cover over her wristpiece’s holographic display, effectively snuffing the beacons. She looks up at him, and seems to come to a decision. 

“Centaurian,” she says. “He’s Centaurian.” 

…Whatever the hell that means. Kraglin strives to appear comprehending. “Right.” 

Isla smirks. “You ain’t got a clue what I’m saying, do you?” 

“’Fraid not.” 

“Well, it ain’t my story to tell… And heck, I don’t know half of it. Keeps his cards to himself, does that one.” But Kraglin knows Isla, and can see when she’s itching to spill a secret a mile off. 

“Go on,” he prods. “I'm not gonna go mouthing off, or nothing. Besides, if everyone else already knows…” 

Isla has never been adept at resisting bait like that. 

“Extinct,” she blurts, as Doc finds a new stack of medical equipment to clean. Kraglin jumps, the plosive staccato stresses of the word echoing like cymbal-crashes. “They’re all extinct. And they was _planetbound_ at that. Practically primitive. Whole tribe of Terrans butchered by Badoon, and not one of ‘em ever crawled off that mudball except Udonta himself.” Her voice lowers. “At least, not that we know of.” 

That’s… not what he’s expecting. Kraglin gawps, catches himself, and clacks his mouth shut. “Shit,” he says. Can’t think of anything else. He doubts Yondu’d want sympathy, and he doesn’t know how to give it anyway. 

“Shit indeed…” Isla startles, and jabs the back of his hand with a studded finger. “Hey, don’t tell him I told you, or nothin'.” 

“I won’t…” 

Badoon slaughtered a lot of races, before the Empires banded to halt their advance. Alpha-Centaurii, wherever that may be, has faded into the endless reel of names that scroll over the Nova recruitment holovids – _we could’ve saved them, if only we’d had more soldiers_. All bullshit, of course. Fact of the matter was, no Empire cared so long as the Badoon were only picking off planetbound Terrans; when the threat encroached on their own territories, that was when they acted. 

Hypocritical rich fuckheads, the lot of ‘em. Not that he’d have gone swanning to the rescue of the Centaurians, nor any other race for that matter – but at least he doesn’t pretend that he would’ve done had circumstances been different. 

Kraglin’s mind rewinds, trawling to when Isla’d first found him. Standing by a porthole. Straining for the speck of a homeworld that’d long receded. Leaving Hrax had been devastating enough – to know that his planet was an empty husk, scoured of everyone he could ever call his own… Unimaginable. Kraglin can’t begin to understand, so he doesn’t try to. He settles a hand on his stomach, where a visceral and unfamiliar bolt of guilt is solidifying; guilt for being too impatient for Yondu to talk in his own time, guilt for having ever wondered in the first place. 

It’s not his place. Even if every other man, woman, and non-gender affiliated individual on the damn ship knows. Kraglin should’ve waited. 

He slides into his bunk and relishes being able to curl up on his side without worrying about squishing the tube. He’ll forget about this, he decides. He’ll pretend he never asked, until his mind convinces him that it’s true. It’s with that thought that he drifts off to an uneasy sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, we've gotten Yondu's backstory - what little Isla knows about it, at least.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Plotwise, things are going to pick up from here...**
> 
>  
> 
> **Drop me a comment if you're enjoying this; they really motivate me and I love to read through all your thoughts.**
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	18. Chapter 18

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin washes windows and nearly has a heart attack, and Yondu acquires a pet.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **ARC 2**

Yondu is, contrary to his word, not returned to the office of first mate before the end of the week. Jora must be _really_ mad at him – or else Dagada has yet to commit any egregious fuck-ups. Kraglin’s expecting him to gripe about it. He encourages it, even; eager for a chance to share some of Morlug’s poignant words regarding the first mate’s mother. But he’s only met with a sullen silence, and a palpable skyrocket in tension whenever Dagada’s name worms to the fore of conversation. 

No container can withstand an exponential increase in pressure forever. And the _Eclector_ ’s old and brittle enough as it is. Eventually, Kraglin figures, something’s got to give. 

And give it does. Violently. 

Yondu’s due back from his latest solo today. Was due back. Technically, it’s not _today_ anymore – Morlug’s already sloped off to start her night shift, and the hangar is bustling with a bunch of disgustingly fresh and wide-awake next-cyclers. Worry-hour’s in ten, but Kraglin, washing the same window in the hangar observation pod for the seventeenth time in as many minutes, tries not to think about that. Sure, Yondu’s a little late. But that could be anything. Evading Nova patrols. Giving a Horde scavenger a well-deserving smack-down. (Kraglin has yet to meet an actual Hordesman, but he’s learnt enough about the rivalry between the two groups from Isla’s tales of barfights, firefights and worse to cultivate a healthy hatred.) Heck, for all Kraglin knows Yondu’s stopped off to do groceries – Shorro’s menu for this week is gross enough to warrant it. 

And so. He scrubs. 

Slap, goes the cloth on the fireproof, pressure-sealed glass. Squeak, goes the cloth when he smears it in a circle, suds streaming down his forearm. Splat, goes the cloth when he drops it into the bucket and unhooks the squeegee from his belt. The window gleams like a slice of wet sunlight. Morlug’d been right all those weeks ago. So Kraglin thinks, as he stretches on his toes, placing the squeegee’s tip as high on the window as he can reach, and drags it down in a messy wobble so he’ll have an excuse to go over it. There _is_ something therapeutic about this. 

One of the Ravagers on refill-duty, who has been observing his lack of progress for the past quarter of an hour, takes it upon himself to chip in. “Y’know, this pod’s got eleven other windows to clean.” 

Yes, but none of them look out on Yondu’s empty bay. Kraglin isn’t about to admit that though, so he gives him a withering look, as if the man is being so unthinkably stupid that Kraglin can’t be bothered to explain why, and resets his squeegee. 

Nine minutes. Those had better be some damn good groceries. And he’d better share. 

Kraglin’s chronometer’s down to five (and his worry, which has been rising in indirect proportion, simmers somewhere around a fifty) when a familiar M-ship noses through the hangar’s forcefield and latches up into dock. The field seals behind it, tight as stretched clingfilm, and Yondu sets his controls and wanders into the craft’s bulbous main body as the system of pulleys and chains creaks it over to its customary hammock. Kraglin watches the hatch on the ship’s backside, waiting for it to pop open and for Yondu to pop out. He is, he acknowledges, a little relieved. Just a little. 

But no hatch-popping occurs. Kraglin frowns. Yeah, solos wear you out like nothing else – but if Yondu’s actually fallen asleep on the floor of his cluttered ship, that’s a first. And quite impressive. 

He and Kraglin haven’t gotten around to any more sex just yet – at least, not what Kraglin thinks as _sex-sex_ , which is composed only of dicks being inserted into anuses. (Anusii?) Mostly because he’s had a teeny-tiny freak out whenever Yondu’s suggested it, and Yondu hasn’t forced the issue. From his sneering, he reckons Kraglin’s a wuss, and Kraglin’s gonna let him keep thinking that because it’s better than the alternative of Yondu discovering that Kraglin’s only nervous because he’s so damn excited, and he’s kinda terrified that he’s excited, and that he really, _really_ doesn’t want to jizz before Yondu puts it in and get mocked for the rest of the week for being the horny teenager he is. 

Just-teenager. Only a month to go now, before Yondu and Isla ought to quit teasing him for being a kid – although not even Kraglin’s optimistic enough to bet on that happening before he turns eighty. 

Anyway. There’s been no _sex-sex_ – but there’s been hands and mouths and a bit of old fashioned grinding, which are just as good. Kraglin’s learnt that Yondu’s as bad at blowjobs as he is at kissing but a goddamn wizard with his hands. And that he likes to be bitten (although he always complains about marks) and Kraglin likes to do the biting. And that the floor of an M-ship that’s seeded with trinkets, guns, old pre-plasma bullet rounds, and various other pilfered instruments of murder-come-torture, isn’t the most comfortable of places to kneel when you’re sucking someone off. Seriously. Who keeps their floorspace seeded with a goddamn stash of old-fashioned explosive charges and a _detonator_ in lumbering-range? 

If Yondu kips there, he’s gonna be stiffer than a board when he wakes. Which means he’ll be a total bitch to work with and the chances of casualty on deck multiply exponentially, both for Kraglin and any unlucky Ravager who gets on his nerves. Kraglin’d better go scoop him up. For the good of them all. 

He props his squeegee over the top of the bucket, and hands them to the Ravager. “Here,” he says, shaking the unconventional gift until it’s taken. “Enjoy.” Then he saunters to the door, prods the biolock, and tramps wet footprints over to Yondu’s ship. 

“Oi!” he calls, once he’s activated the external override on the hatch and let himself in. Sneaking up on Yondu’s tempting, but also a surefire way to get an arrow through the head. “Oi, Yondu! You alive?” 

There’s a crunch from the wing to his right, and a muffled curse. Kraglin picks his way between a mound of half-powdered compactcarb cubes and protein squares, and a collection of ancient skrull bazookas that have had their safeties snapped off. He taps on the door. It opens. Yondu stands in it, looking frazzled but bright-eyed, and very much not asleep. He also looks… shifty. It’s not an expression Kraglin associates with Yondu, and so it puts him instantly on edge. 

“Uh,” he says. “Is everything alright?” 

“Fine,” replies Yondu. Scratches at his stubble, and rubs the back of his neck like he’s trying to iron out a crease. It’s not a tell, not quite, but… 

“You… sure?” Kraglin asks delicately. There’s something in the storage space behind Yondu; something big and crate-like that wasn’t there the last time he cleaned… Yondu sidles forwards, filling the gap and blocking off his view. 

“Yep. Hey, ain’t you supposed to be on night-shift?” Classic redirection. Oh no. He’s not getting out of this that easily. 

“Weren’t you supposed to be back hours ago?” Kraglin shoots in return. Yondu effects an innocent shrug. 

“Got caught up in something.” 

“Right.” 

They stand in silence. Yondu’s fingers tap on his crossed arm, a rhythm to a song from a world far from Kraglin’s own, and he pretends to check his chronometer. 

“What’s in the box?” Kraglin asks. 

Yondu blinks like he has to place what Kraglin’s on about, then shrugs again. “Nothin'.” The reply is perfectly timed, perfectly toned. Rehearsed. 

“Nothing,” repeats Kraglin. He injects his voice with dubiousness. Yondu leans his weight on the doorframe, so that Kraglin’s efforts to catch a glimpse of the object beyond are met with crackly red leather and sleek blue skin. 

“Yep. Empty. Figured the boys in Storage could use it.” 

‘Nothing’ takes this opportunity to growl. Yondu very almost winces. 

“I think your Nothing’s hungry,” Kraglin says. Yondu narrows his eyes at him until Kraglin realizes that he’s not as funny as he thinks he is, and holds up his hands in apology. “Alright, alright. Keep your secrets. You and Nothing have a fun night, now.” He turns to leave. And makes it to the door before his passage is halted by a gruff sigh and the sound of a door being opened and propped with a canister of pressurized fire-foam. 

“C’mon then,” Yondu says. 

________________________________________ 

There’s a lot of things Kraglin would like to say. They all start and end with the same concept though, so he strips it to its barest components and blurts it for the galaxy to hear – “Why the _fuck_ have ya brought a bilgesnipe on board?” 

A blue palm slaps over his mouth. “Shut it!” Yondu hisses. Waits to ensure that Kraglin’s words haven’t percolated the M-ship and sent the refillers into hysterics, then scowls. “And grow a pair, would ya? S'just a baby.” 

They examine the massive creature curled at the bottom of its cramped cell. Its fang-sharp horns and horn-sharp fangs; its back of bristling porcupine-spines. Its weighty ankylosaur bludgeon of a tail. 

“Baby,” says Kraglin tonelessly. Yondu, the bastard, grins. 

“With a face only a mother could love. But you gotta admit – it’s kinda cute.” 

“It wouldn’t fit on your console,” Kraglin answers. But his head’s still spinning – at the size of the thing, which completely fills out Yondu’s storage space – no way did he wedge the container through the door; he must’ve popped the M-ship’s outer shell and rebuilt it around it. And at the sheer horror that he’s sharing a dimension with something this monstrous. Which brings him back to the question at hand – “The fuck’s it doing on your ship?” Or more importantly, on the _Eclector_. Because hell, if anyone finds out about this… 

“Job,” says Yondu. “We’re passing Knowhere in three cycles – we drop off Baby with the Collector, pick up forty-hundred units, and go brag to Jora that we’ve made more in under a week than Dagada’s organized in a month.” 

Kraglin gapes at him. “That’s it? That’s your plan for making first mate again?” 

Yondu frowns. “What’s wrong with it?” 

What can he say? It’s idiotic? Dangerous? Foolhardy and reckless and probably going to work, because this is Yondu, after all. Kraglin passes a hand over his eyes and consolidates his words before spewing them out. 

“Look. It’s not that this ain’t a good bounty. Or a good job. Heck, if you had the resources, it’d be a doss. But…” He glances at that tail, one swing of which could bludgeon through the M-ship, cracking the slim pressure-panels like tree bark. Had Yondu really _flown_ with this on board? “Look at this thing, Yondu! What if it wakes up?” 

“It’s sedated,” says Yondu. Nothing’s mouth opens – _aaaall_ the way, wide enough for a child to stand inside. Kraglin counts seven rows of teeth, each as long as his pinky, inwards curving and jagged edged. Sweat prickles his spine. 

“That don’t look sedated to me! Shit, Yondu, let’s just tell someone –“ He starts for the exit, fumbling at the door latch. Yondu grabs his arm. 

“No! Look – Krags, don’t you trust me?” 

Oh, that’s just all kinds of unfair. 

Kraglin unpeels the blue hand from his wrist finger by finger. “It ain’t _you_ I have a problem with,” he says. Nothing cracks open an eye, grumbles in its voluminous throat, resettles. He and Yondu, frozen at the movement, slowly relax. “See? Ya can’t keep this thing here, Yondu. And – and this sounds fishy to me. What’s the Collector want with a bilgesnipe? Asgardians trade ‘em for the Cartel’s baiting matches all the time.” But Yondu when he has his mind set on something is less dissuadable than a bilgesnipe with a nose full of fresh blood-scent. 

“I got enough tranqs to keep it under for a week,” he argues, spinning Kraglin and getting between him and the ship’s hatch. “And c’mon, Kraglin! Forty-hundred units. And the look on Dagada’s face. Think about it!” 

He makes valid points. But Nothing’s directly in Kraglin’s line of vision. All fourteen coiled, muscular meters of it. The stupefied twitch of its tail-club is hypnotic. 

“Hell no.” 

Yondu’s expression shutters. “I don’t need your _permission_.” He growls the word like it’s dirty. Kraglin reminds himself that Yondu’s not first mate yet, and that he doesn’t have to follow his orders. And that he’s not going to kill him. Probably. 

“This is a bad idea,” he says. Drags his eyes from Nothing – difficult, given that he’s monopolized the entirety of the remaining floorspace – and fixes them on Yondu’s own in the vain hope that he’ll find a glimmer of his trepidation reflected there. “A really, really bad idea.” 

“Pessimist,” Yondu accuses. Then checks around him (an action of habit rather than purpose, as they’re safely encapsulated within the M-ship with Nothing as their only witness) and promises in a rough whisper – “Look, do this for me – keep it to yerself for three days, that’s all – and ya can fuck me again, yeah?” 

Dammit. Damn him for even thinking like that, damn Kraglin for considering it, and damn Yondu’s Nothing for being the sort of problem that not even mindblowing sex can fix. Kraglin stands his ground. “No deal.” Then, before Yondu’s disappointment can twist into anger – “It ain’t you. I… I don’t trust this thing, Yondu. And I sure as hell don’t trust the Collector.” 

“You ain’t an idiot then.” Yondu rests one hand on his hip, scrubbing at the skin around his eyebrows with the other like he’s trying to massage a headache away. “Okay. Here’s what we do. I give him his second round of tranqs. You head to storage and find some more – Doc’s old med crap that’s too strong to use, anything. If Baby wakes up again, we fetch Jora.” 

It’s the best he’s going to get. Keeping a wary eye on Nothing – or Baby, whatever – Kraglin nods. Yondu’s relieved huff is as loud as its snores. He claps Kraglin on the shoulder, then hooks his arm over and grabs a fistful of leather collar to guide him along the gangway. 

“Alright! Off ya go then. Meet back here in twenty!” 

Kraglin’s tired – Yondu must be dead on his feet. But he’s also burning with a bright and frantic energy, and no way is Kraglin going to slope off to bunk and leave him alone with a bilgesnipe, baby or otherwise. Sighing, he hauls the hatch up and kicks the roll-out ladder until it does its job. The last he sees of Yondu, he’s slotting needle cartridges into a multi-function pistol, eyes fever-bright and humming that unknown song under his breath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is so totally going to work out well! :D :D :D**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Intrigued? Confused? Worried about our boys? Leave me a comment!**


	19. Chapter 19

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which everything goes according to plan, there's absolutely no danger to life and limb, and Kraglin doesn't almost die again.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oh man. I had way too much fun writing this chapter. You may be able to tell.**

Trouble comes not in the form of a bilgesnipe’s anvil-shaped tail stud, but a bulky yellow Xandarian with ripped sleeves and flame tattoos.

“Dagada,” says Kraglin, jogging to a halt. “Sir.” It’s two hours into his night-cycle, there’s foreign Ravagers all around, and he’s got a pack full of anesthetic cartridges strapped to his back and another box under one arm. All in all, not the most subtle expedition. Dagada, blocking the corridor, rethinks the question he’d been about to pose and studies Kraglin’s cargo with interest. 

“What’s all this?” 

Kraglin juggles the incriminating evidence lower in the box, and repeats the lie he’d told the quartermaster. “Errand for Doc.” Unlike the quartermaster, Dagada doesn’t sniff disinterestedly and return to his account books. Instead he leans closer, cocking his head to read the script on the nearest label. 

“That’s some potent juice you’ve got. What would Doc want with this? It’s too strong for use on bipedals.” Kraglin lifts a shoulder, striving to emulate the ignorant drawl of a Ravager gopher. 

“Ain’t my place to ask, sir.” 

“Indeed.” Dagada motions for Kraglin to turn, and gives his backpack a leisurely peruse. Kraglin bears the indignity with grace. So much for hoping Dagada would forget him. The bo’sun-turned-first-mate ignores the majority of the crew and incessantly picks on the minority brave or dumb enough to disrespect him; Kraglin had rather hoped to fall in with the former section, but Dagada nurses grudges like suckling teats, and evidently has yet to forget the part Kraglin played in his humiliation at Yondu’s hands. Just Kraglin’s luck. 

“Where’s Udonta?” Dagada inquires, rummaging Kraglin’s jacket pockets. Kraglin stares straight ahead and answers as dully as he can – 

“I wouldn’t know, sir.” 

“I find that hard to believe.” Dagada pulls out his hairgel, turns it over in his palms, sneers at it, and drops it to clatter across the rusted paneling. “You two are thick as thieves recently. I can’t help but wonder what is it you’re up to.” 

Shit. If he searches the inside pockets, he’s gonna have his question answered. Kraglin holds his breath, feeling the sharp edge of the lube tube dig through the lining. 

“Are you planning something? Something regarding myself, and the first mate position Udonta so kindly vacated for me?” He’s spun again, Dagada in front of him this time. “Lift your arms. Or could you be conspiring against the captain?” 

A brief pat-down ensues. Dagada’s hands are professional and sure. He touches Kraglin as little as possible, turning out his trouser pockets and checking through the pouches on his belt. The inspection is as thorough as it is detached, however, and Kraglin can only be grateful that he hasn’t been ordered to strip, bend over, and cough. But then, inevitably, Dagada tugs his coat zipper. “I know you’re up to something,” he hisses. 

There’s no one on board who’s got the pleasantest breath, Kraglin included. After a fortnight of sharing bodyheat with Yondu, he’s kinda gotten used to it. But Dagada’s is especially putrid. His tongue’s furry and white, and the few solid dregs that can be strained from a bowl of Shorro-slops have been filtered by the gaps in his large, blockish teeth. Kraglin rears back. 

“Sir, I really gotta go, I ain’t supposed to dawdle –“ 

“So you’re hiding something in here,” says Dagada gleefully, yanking the zip open with a rasp. One hand closes around Kraglin’s neck, forcing his chin up and compressing his airways just enough to warn. Then Dagada shoves the other into the lining of his coat. Kraglin braces himself – 

Only for Dagada to hastily yank it out again. “Ow! What the fuck?” 

There’s blood. A lot of blood. It spills from the ragged pit of Dagada’s nail bed, where he caught the tip of Kraglin’s new favorite dagger and pulled. Dagada stares at it, enraptured with pain, as if he can’t work out what’s happening. Kraglin stares at it too. Then realizes this is his chance, shuffles his bag securely over his shoulders, and ducks under Dagada’s arm. 

“Sorry sir!” he calls, sprinting for the ladder-shaft. Oh, how he’d love to stay and offer him an anesthetic – preferably one of the ones with the fluorescent orange warning label on it, which when pressed, scrolls through holographic messages in every language in the Nova corpus: _Not For Use On Bipedals._ But duty calls. Yondu’s still on the M-ship, and they’ve got a bilgesnipe to knock out. 

________________________________________ 

Later, he’s ass-naked with Yondu in a snoring sprawl over his lap, half a mind on the bilgesnipe in the storage-space next door and half dedicated to the IED digging into his hip, praying that this doesn’t all go abysmally tits up, and wishing he had a cigarette. Still. He’s on Inventory for his morning shift. The next day-cycle starts in three hours. Yondu’s not going to move for long after that, so Kraglin might as well grab some shut-eye while he can. He yawns, rubbing his eyes, and sets to scouring an area amid all of Yondu’s crud that’s big enough for him to curl up in and sleep. 

His alarm goes off on the dot. Kraglin jerks awake, thrashing when it dawns that he’s not in his bunk and there’s something pinning his legs. Upon discovering that that something is blue, and distinctly fleshier than the gravimetric electroties favored by Cartel bounty hunters, he flops down again, intending to take a well-deserved five minutes. 

Then he remembers that he’s already been conked out for three hours; three hours which Baby could’ve spent chewing its way out of its pen (not that it needs to do much more in the way of teething). And that if he scoots an inch to his right, he’ll be sitting on the detonator for the charge under his ass, and they’ll find out if these damn things are as inactive as Yondu keeps claiming. 

Kraglin scrambles to his feet. Yondu’s rolled off with a grumble and a thud, but soon finds a grenade launcher to hug. Kraglin prays he doesn’t set it off in his sleep. Still, there’s bigger, fangier dangers weighing on his mind. He hits the door panel, and pokes his head into the dim compartment beyond. 

Then slowly removes it. He’s hallucinating. He has to be. 

Fourteen meters of spine-backed, mace-tailed bilgesnipe doesn’t just _disappear_ , after all. 

Kraglin shuts the door, counts to five, and opens it again. Then pinches himself just to be sure. Then, and only then, does he start to panic. 

________________________________________ 

“The fuck d'you mean it’s _gone_! It can’t be gone!” 

Yondu’d responded to the wake-up shake with the expected amount of swearing and an unprecedented number of fists. But as soon as the words Kraglin had been hissing seeped into his ears, it was impossible to remain unconscious. Now he sits, cross-legged and bleary-eyed, and leers at Kraglin like this is somehow his fault. “You telling me ya lost it?” 

“I didn’t lose anything!” Kraglin yells. Yondu’s eyes widen and he grabs him by the cheeks, shaking his head violently from side to side. Kraglin drops his voice to a whisper, panting through his squished lips. “I had nothin' t'do with this! I just went to check on it! And it! Is! Gone!” 

Yondu blinks. “Well, did ya look in the cage?” 

“Of _course_ I looked in the cage, dammit, I ain't _retarded_ –“ 

“But if someone took it out,” Yondu interrupts, clamping down on Kraglin’s shoulders hard enough to cut off the circulation, “that means they musta seen us!” He releases Kraglin long enough to smack himself in the forehead. “Fuck!” 

Kraglin boggles at him. “ _That’s_ what you’re most concerned about?” 

“Aw, just… hell, let’s go.” Yondu uses him as a crutch to drag himself upright, lifting the nearest shirt from the pile of carb-cubes on the way. Kraglin totters after him, unsteady on his feet. 

“You’re telling me we’re – what? Going to hunt this thing? Can we at least comm it in first?” 

Yondu stomps into the antechamber. He takes in the crowbarred wreckage of the bilgesnipe’s cage and the absentee roof, and crouches besides the truncated bulb of the wall, running his fingers over a scrape between rivets. The lights of the Hangar slide clinquant off his bare blue legs. Kraglin is suddenly glad that they’re suspended close to the roof. 

“Look,” Yondu says, pointing. “Someone pried off the top panels – like how I got it in.” As if that wasn’t evident. Yondu strokes his chin. “Perhaps they didn’t see us after all.” 

Kraglin could throttle him. Or he could try, but he’d wind up dead and unsatisfied. He strangles the air in front of him instead. “Please, I really don’t think now’s the time for us to be worryin' over that…” 

“I ain’t worried,” snaps Yondu, predictably. Kraglin’s so on-edge that he actually rolls his eyes at him. “What?” 

Kraglin makes a long survey of the busted, roofless storage chamber, the cracked cage, and the rumpled Centaurian clad only in a black shirt and his skin who stands amid the wreckage of his future prospects. This… is beyond his pay-grade. “I’m comming the captain,” he says. Yondu’s eyes widen. 

“Like hell you are –“ 

“Ya might wanna put on some pants before she gets here.” 

Yondu snarls and tries to tackle him, but Kraglin has the bonus of having been awake for more than five minutes, on top of actually having a normal adrenaline-response to discovering that the gargantuan man eating monstrosity they’ve been hiding on Yondu’s ship is loose. He sidesteps, and Yondu skids facefirst into the doorjamb. 

“Don’t you fuckin’ dare,” he growls, more hellish than ever with his eyes glowing red and blue blood dripping from his nose. Kraglin, preparing to dodge again at short notice, keeps his eyes on him as he dials the relevant code into his comm. “I’ll shoot ya, Kraglin. I’ll do it.” 

He’s not sure if he dares call his bluff. Kraglin glances around, checking if Yondu’s arrow is in the vicinity – might give him an extra second to make the call, if it’s out of Yondu’s line-of-sight. Then regrets it, as Yondu pounces on opportunity and him alike, and dives him to the floor. Kraglin’s head clunks off a storage box. Spots stutter in front of his vision; he moans, waving them away to reveal Yondu astride his legs and sans-modesty from the waist down, Kraglin’s limp wrist held in one hand as he figures out how to cancel the comm-call upside down and backwards. 

“Fuckin'… fuck… dammit,” he mutters as he clicks through the buttons. Kraglin holds his breath in hope. For once, his prayers are answered. Yondu’s fumbling catches the call switch. 

“The fuck d'you want?” snaps Jora’s, voice all the huskier through the static. Never has Kraglin heard a sweeter, grouchier sound. 

“Captain!” he shouts. “Escaped bilgesnipe in M-ship Hangar V need assistance –“ Yondu swears and clicks the comm off. “ – Send reinforcements immediately,” Kraglin finishes lamely. Then squints at Yondu, who’s sitting back on his thighs, still naked-bar-shirt (and damn, it is really not the time to be distracted by that now) with an inscrutable emotion in his eyes. “What?” 

“Now I gotta kill you,” Yondu says. 

Kraglin only has time to relish the sensation of all his internal organs dehydrating simultaneously, and to thank his ancestors that he’s inherited their impeccable bladder control. He watches Yondu’s lips purse in slow motion. The daze in his head settles like a miasma, and he’s at once inside his body and outside of it, a spectator and participant in the same instant, and he’s going to die. Maybe this time for real. 

Then Yondu’s comm beeps. Kraglin flops like a rag doll. Honestly. It’s a wonder his heart hasn’t given out, what with all this adrenaline whiplash. 

“Udonta!” Jora roars. 

Kraglin has seen Yondu infuriated, hungry, horny, half-asleep and grouchy. Never nervous. It’s not a good look on him. “You should get that,” he croaks. Yondu motions for him to shut up. Shifts so his foot’s pressed on Kraglin’s chest and he’s sitting on his knees, preventing him from fleeing as he activates the comm. 

“Hey captain,” he drawls. “What’s up?” 

There’s an incandescent splutter of rage. “You… you bring a bilgesnipe onto my ship? And then you ask me that?” She knows. Shit. Kraglin meets Yondu’s panicked eyes and pulls an eloquent face. _You got yourself into this_. And, knowing Yondu, he’ll get himself out of it. Even intact, if he’s lucky. 

Yondu’s mouth thins; Kraglin can see him chewing on the inside of his cheeks. When he speaks it’s collected; decisive – even though his foot’s sweating against Kraglin’s chest. The arrow-scar twinges under a cracked blue toenail. “They was gonna cough up forty-hundred units for a simple drop-off. You think I’m gonna pass that up?” There’s a hum of appreciation from behind Jora; Kraglin guesses that’s the rest of the Bridge crew listening in. Of course. Money – the way to a Ravager’s heart. Of course Yondu’d spin it like he was trying to nab them all a pay-raise, not just up his pissing contest with the first mate. _Jackass_. “Nah, it was under control,” Yondu continues, well-aware of their additional audience. “Until somebody decided to steal it.” 

“Really?” Jora’s voice is poison. “Because I now got two reports confirmin' that there’s a bilgesnipe loose on deck. And that it clawed its way outta _your_ M-ship.” Kraglin frowns. He hadn’t mentioned that, had he? Yondu, meanwhile, is scanning the remains of his busted-open wing, a smile starting to form. 

“Hey, I’m on site and I ain’t seeing no clawmarks. It was still conked out when they nicked it. Someone’s loosed this thing; and, as it sure as heck wasn’t me – who else made the report?” 

Jora hesitates. Kraglin can’t see it – from his angle, the hologram is a dark pixelated slice. But he hears the weary exhalation of breath. “Some novice,” she says – a press of Yondu’s foot warns Kraglin not to reveal himself, not that he’d be tempted anyway. “And Dagada.” 

Yondu’s grin is bloodcurdling. “The wiseguy who never thinks ahead, forgettin' to wipe the evidence. Wouldya imagine that.” It’s just as likely that Dagada had had rather more on his mind than evidence-wiping – the logistics of hauling a bilgesnipe around the hangar-deck, for one. Or potentially, a waking bilgesnipe. Kraglin’s torn between hoping the tranqs are as strong as Yondu promised and wishing Dagada a startling toothy end. 

Jora stabs her finger into the camera on her wristpiece. Her miniature hand bursts over Yondu’s forehead in shimmery ribbons. “I still wanna know why I wasn’t aware it was on board to start with! And why you didn’t comm me earlier.” 

“Because the kid I put in charge of it only just told me it was missing,” Yondu lies easily. Kraglin groans and smacks his skull on the box with a solid thunk. “And I knew ya wouldn’t say yes.” 

“You think that gives you an excuse to disobey me?” Jora asks. But it doesn’t sound like her heart’s in it. “Tell me ya at least sedated it.” 

Yondu snorts, offended. “Of course! It’ll be woozy for another hour, I reckon.” 

As if he has any way to tell. But Jora takes his word on it, inclining her head in a severe nod. Kraglin wishes he had the same confidence. “I expect it restrained in that time,” she tells him. “I’ll evacuate the Hangar deck and seal you in. And dock any damage from your pay-cheque.” Yondu’s grumble is snipped short by a glare. “Judgin' from that last message, it’s already eaten one novice.” Kraglin wonders if there’s anyone left with a bet on him, and whether they’ll try to collect. “Let any more die, and I’ll tie you up and feed ya to it myself.” 

“And Dagada?” Yondu asks. Jora narrows her eyes. 

“He can help. And if the bilgesnipe eats one of ya, it’ll sure make my life a helluva lot easier.” 

Yondu clicks off the comm, scowl folding into grim contemplation. Still pinned, Kraglin stretches his nose as far away from Yondu’s foot as it can get, and treats himself to a drawn-out, lingering whimper. Perfect. He’s going monster hunting with the biggest asshole on board, and the first mate. Sure, Kraglin’s name hasn’t been mentioned; as usual, he’s hovering on the peripherals of this venture. But he’ll be roped in somehow – although if they crawl out alive he can wager that he’ll never see any of the rewards. Soon enough, his prediction is proved. Yondu shifts his steely gaze onto him and affords him a generous inch to extract himself. 

“Alright. You, me, and Dagada. Go fetch the tranq box.” A beat. “And my pants.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Tune in on Saturday for the monster-hunt...**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Please leave a comment if you're enjoying this fic; they mean the world to me!**


	20. Chapter 20

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin and Baby enjoy some quality bonding time, Dagada shows off his pistol-whipping skills, and Yondu gets a boo-boo.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **A longer chappie. I'm gonna try and plough through the rest of this before term starts, so I might switch to a once-every-two-days update.**

“Don’t trust him,” Yondu mutters, as they lug the tranq cartridges through the ship’s pipe-lined underbelly. He doesn’t appear overly concerned about the fact that a spiked tail could smash through walls and them alike at any moment. He’s sauntering along with a jaunty gait – admittedly, that might be more to do with stiff legs from falling asleep wrapped around Kraglin like a constrictor than bravado, but it fills much the same purpose. Kraglin, who (as he keeps pointing out) isn’t completely stupid, takes a break from double-checking each shadow to sneer.

 _Trust Dagada?_ As if he would. 

They meet Dagada under the ladder shaft to the floor above. Jora’s left two levels for them to explore – the hangar bay and the crawlspace, which is really too cramped for even the baby-most of bilgesnipe. The trapdoors to the engine rooms have been sealed. Far above, a heavy red-painted manhole blocks out the light. The only place that’s not cordoned off is the lift – but Kraglin figures nobody’s dumb enough to risk getting trapped with a raging bilgesnipe while wobbling about in a cage several hundred feet up in the air. 

Dagada emerges from the North Wing corridor, boot grips scraping sullenly over the bundled pipes. The first thing Yondu does is grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. Dagada chokes for a glorious moment. Then winds his forearms between Yondu’s and wrenches them apart, shoving him off. He sucks air, before dissolving into well-deserved, pained hacks. 

“Stop!” he spits, when Yondu prepares to whistle. “Stop. You need me.” 

“Do I?” Yondu asks. Dagada nods, massaging his bruised neck. “Ain’t no one got eyes on us down here. I could chop you up and use ya for bilgesnipe-bait, then say it got to ya before I could. Who’d be wiser?” 

Kraglin undergoes a brief but intense internal conflict. Then resolves that if he’s not dead at this point, the universe must be keeping him alive for a reason, and steps forwards. “I would,” he says. Damn it, he’s not sending any more bloody bins out into the aether. Yondu’s grin is ruthless and without a hint of humor. 

“That’s easy enough to fix.” 

Kraglin demurely relocates his gaze to his feet. “Sir, all I’m sayin' is that you oughta ask him how far he dragged the damn thing before it woke up. Gives us a place to start. That’s all.” 

Humming to himself, Yondu considers. Then nods. “Good idea.” 

Kraglin pretends that the praise doesn’t make him light up like a fucking fairy light at a Nova parade – then thinks what the hell, and embraces it. He’s hunting bilgesnipe. Ain’t the time to be lying to himself. He likes impressing Yondu. He wants to impress Yondu. And he wants to watch Yondu slowly eviscerate Dagada until he’s filleted thinner than meat portions in canteen – but that can wait until after their bilgesnipe’s safely under lock and key. And there’s another scrub-shift worker around to sponge up the mess. 

Five minutes later, they’re standing at a crossroads situated smack-bang in the middle of the hangar level. Four corridors angle out like spokes on a wheel. The bulb above them rotates lazily in its socket, intermittently sweeping their faces with shadow and glaring red; Dagada’s skin catches the light and throws it back burnished orange, while Yondu flushes an unflattering aubergine. 

“We got enough gear?” Kraglin asks, thumbing over his shoulder at the pile that’s been liberated from storage closets, cleaning cupboards, and any unlocked M-ship they could find. Yondu eyes it up. Counts one tranq gun for fifteen bilgesnipe-sized shots. There’s a hefty length of chain – thirty-odd meters that snapped off a cagelift last week and decapitated a rookie, but which hasn’t been dumped out the airlock on the offchance it’ll sell for decent scrap – and some of Doc’s needles. A lot of Doc’s needles. They’ve drained one of Kraglin’s boxes to fill the two empty syringe cartridges that Yondu’d already injected the monster with, and so the rest are small, delicate, and utterly ineffective against anything with a hide thicker than Kraglin’s jacket – but good for moral support. Kraglin’s already dug himself out a handful to replace a few of his less well-loved knives. 

“Think so,” Yondu says, propping the rifle on his shoulder. “I can’t track the damn thing surrounded by all this metal. So better safe than dead.” He drops to one knee and starts fitting it with capsules. Dagada snarls. 

“Hey! Why do you get the gun?” 

Yondu keeps snapping cartridges into place. “Why shouldn’t I?” 

“It’s your monster!” 

“You let it loose.” 

“You’ve got a fucking radioactive arrow!” 

“Which I’d use, if I wanted it dead.” 

Dagada sputters, struggling for an argument. Looks helplessly to Kraglin. Kraglin shrugs. “He’s first mate.” 

“I’m first mate!” yells Dagada. Yondu shoots Kraglin a glare, who shrugs again. 

“Not,” he growls, popping the last cartridge in with a distinctive plastic-on-plastic clack, “for long.” 

Oh, because that bodes well. Whether or not they meet the bilgesnipe, Kraglin has a suspicion that things are going to get messy – judging from the way Dagada fingers the hilts of his twin double-barreled blasters, he thinks so too. Yondu just glares at the both of them and starts filling his pockets with syringes. He’s generous enough to leave Dagada a handful. Dagada claims them with a snarl, and pointedly wraps the chain around his arm for good measure. Ignoring him, Yondu clambers to his feet and assumes a commanding stance in the middle of the four-doored atrium. 

“Alright,” he says. “We split up. Dagada dumped it in the North East, so I’ll scout those wings. Might have a chance of taking it alive if I get to it first.” He nods to each of them in turn. “Dagada, South. Kraglin, you’re on West. Private comm-line, stay in contact at all times. You see anything… scream.” 

Pep-talk over, Yondu sets the butt of the tranq rifle under his collar bone, its slim black barrel menacing the shadows before him. He selects his door, and prowls forwards. Kraglin wonders if he can fake his own death and find a nice quiet broom closet to hide in until all of this is over. Yeah, he’s grateful that Yondu’s assigned him the wing they’ve just come from – which is thus the least likely to contain a raving bilgesnipe, as they’d seen hide nor hair of it during the tense walk over. But it would’ve been much nicer to be up on the Bridge with Jora and the rest, watching the carnage from afar. 

Okay. So maybe that’s a little misleading. 

Kraglin blames Isla. And Morlug, and Varra and Figs, and especially Yondu, for being terrible influences on his formative pre-twenty years. Why else would the prospect of stalking through an ancient rustbucket of a ship, hunting and being hunted by a demonic beast dragged directly from a childhood nightmare, make him _excited_? 

He pats the knives in his belt. Then the Skrull bazooka strapped over one shoulder, the plasma rifle dangling off the other, and the two rapid-fire blaster pistols tucked down the back of his pants. The West Wing door is a bland circle of red-painted iron. It opens at a push. Steeling himself, Kraglin copies Yondu’s bent-kneed creep, and steals soundlessly into the dark. 

At least, he tries to. It turns out that stealth is out of the question when you’re covered in more weapons than a goddamn mod-addict. Kraglin swears and strips off the bazooka, propping it against an airlock for some lucky scavenger to find. Ain’t like he’d be able to use it indoors anyway, not without risking perforating the walls and sucking them all out into the void; the thing’s an antique, and as liable to misfire as it is to gum up completely. Still, having it had made him feel better. 

“Kraglin.” Yondu’s voice, from his wrist. The camera shows the underside of his jaw, flickering bruise-purple in the poor light. “You alright?” He must’ve opened another comm, one between the two of them. Kraglin weighs his answers. 

“As much as is possible right now sir,” he settles for. If he mentions that his heart’s pounding and it’s not all fear, Yondu might take the chance to fuck with him and order him to handle this solo. On the holoscreen, Yondu comes to a fork and spins – once to menace the empty hall to one side, once to the other. Kraglin can hear him breathing, fast but controlled. “You?” 

Yondu’s grin is a sunshine slice of yellow. “Time of my life. Hey, Kraglin?” 

Kraglin aims the rifle up into a ladder shaft – clear, thank fuck – and creeps onwards. His ears strain for a rattle of claws on grill, of animal muscle shifting smoothly over bone. “Yeah?” he whispers. 

Yondu’s eyes flick to the camera. “Try not to die, willya? I ain’t there to save you this time.” 

Despite himself, despite this situation, despite everything – Kraglin’s smiling. “I’ll do my best,” he says. 

When two dark cupboards and a trapdoor to the engine rooms reveal nothing more dangerous than an unsignposted wet patch – some poor soul must’ve been scrubbing when the order to evacuate had come – Kraglin lets his plasma gun dangle, working out the kink from his shoulder. Perhaps he should ditch the rifle too. Damn thing’s heavy, and heck, it ain’t been that long since he had an arrow stuck through there. The _Eclector_ isn’t the smallest of ships, what with being the command-hub of the entire Ravager fleet. It could be hours before they come across the damn thing. 

He turns the corner. 

…Or maybe not. Maybe dropping the rifle is a stupid, terrible, godforsakenly awful idea. Because as it turns out, bilgesnipes have a half-decent homing instinct, and right now, the only way its scent is leading is back the way it’d come. 

Kraglin screams. 

Or at least, he does in his head. Loudly. Very, very loudly. 

In actuality, he manages to clap a hand over his mouth before the sound emerges – the only thing that stops the napping bilgesnipe shredding him there and then. He’s petrified, knees of stone and legs of jelly. When he’s certain he’s got the muscle control to shift his weight without falling in a clattering heap, he backs away. Carefully. Every one of his footfalls booms louder than a thunderclap. He’s only taken two strides into the corridor, but has to shuffle back in baby steps to avoid tripping on stray pipes. The five seconds it takes him to cover the distance are the longest of his life. 

Finally though, he makes it. Kraglin flips onto the other side of the wall, out of sight in case those scaly eyelids open. Air forces raggedly through his nose. He fumbles with his wristpiece and pushes the receiver close enough to his mouth that he doesn’t have to raise his voice above a whisper. 

“Yondu?” 

“Yeah?” 

“I found your pet.” 

That’s when Dagada dashes up behind him and clocks him over the head with his pistol. 

________________________________________ 

“Knocked out… leave him… quick.” 

The words filter into Kraglin’s brain like they’re being strained through cotton wool. He squeezes his eyes open, one after the other, managing not to moan as the back of his skull throbs. Fuck. Is there something embedded there, or something? Fingers shaking, Kraglin quests out his cranium. He discovers no leaking brain matter, but a bump the size and rough shape of a draov egg that sends hot splinters lancing through him at the touch. He’s… he’s… where is he? 

There’s something in front of him, about a foot in front of his face. His eyesight’s fuzzy; he can’t make it out. All he can tell is that it’s serrated, smells faintly of congealed blood and carnivore-breath, and it appears to be snoring. 

Kraglin rubs his eyes. Blinks several times, until the warring images leaking through each optic nerve coalesce. Then regrets it. 

“Hey there, Baby,” he whispers, as the bilgesnipe he’s near-on eskimo-kissing rumbles in its sleep. “Ssh… ssh. Don’t wake up. Please, please, don’t wake up.” 

He starts to wiggle away. It’s an infinitesimal movement – made all the moreso by the fact that he can’t move his legs. Kraglin, frowning, looks down. Don’t say he’s broken his spine. This would be a very bad time to break his spine. Because sure, they can fix that kinda thing nowadays, if the Ravagers have robbed a Nova med-station in the past moon. But not even Doc can stitch you together after you’ve been mauled by a bilgesnipe. Thankfully, the source of the petrification is immediately apparent – the lift-chain has been doubled three times around his legs and knotted around a loose loop of pipe that’s hanging from the ceiling. That chain’s a helluva lot sturdier than it looks when it’s suspending you above a bottomless shaft. Kraglin swears to himself and starts to shimmy. Then freezes as the chain clips ringingly off the pipe, and both the bilgesnipe, and the person speaking to their wristpiece in the background stiffen. 

Shit, shit, shit… 

Kraglin doesn’t breathe. He doesn’t move. He’s fairly certain that his heart puts in its best efforts and skips a couple of beats too. 

When you don’t have the mobility to fight or flee, sudden surges of adrenaline do little other than fill your head with overwhelming panic, which is why he doesn’t notice the tinkle of a disintegrating hologram or the sound of footsteps rapidly receding. The galaxy has shrunk to a space of approximately eight meters squared, which is currently being occupied by himself, a bunch of pulsing translucent pipes, and a bilgesnipe. 

A bilgesnipe which is waking up. 

Eyeballs roll beneath heavy lids. Kraglin sees a hint of red, the tic of muscles in its mighty jaw as it staves off a yawn. Fuck. One bite, that’s all it would take. One bite, and bye-bye to head, shoulders, chest, torso in its entirety. 

Mind garbling panic, Kraglin abandons all attempts at delicacy and crashes his feet into the nearest wall, praying that the chains will rattle loose. They rattle – they certainly rattle – but little else. Behind him, the bilgesnipe starts to growl. Flecks of drool spatter the back of his neck, along with wafts of hot, moist, meaty breath. 

Kraglin doesn’t dare check to see if its eyes are open now – it wouldn’t make any difference if he did. He sits, grasping the end of the chain in both hands, and yanks desperately on the pipe. It’s not gonna come off his legs, that’s for sure. But he will fucking caterpillar-crawl his way out of this if he has to. The pipe creaks – wringing another waking grumble from the bilgesnipe. Kraglin’s palms slip, sweat slicking the chilly chain. 

Dagada… that had been Dagada. Talking on the comm. 

Kraglin spares a second to assess his own wrist, and discovers it devoid. Dagada must’ve stolen his piece. Must’ve… must’ve contacted Yondu. Which means Yondu’ll be coming. For the bilgesnipe, most likely – but if he saves Kraglin as collateral, Kraglin’s hardly going to complain. Only one problem. If he ain’t here already, there’s no way that he’s going to arrive in time to stop Kraglin becoming chow. 

And heck. Kraglin’s had quite enough of being the damsel in distress. 

Dagada’s stolen his pistols – of course. The rifle’s nowhere to be seen. He’s even frisked him for knives, evidently having learnt from experience. But Kraglin’s still got his syringes, and – he rubs his legs to make sure – the slim file he stows in the homemade thigh holster under his pants. If he can get to it… If he can saw his way out… 

Fingers shaking, he yanks down his fly. He has to dislodge a syringe from his belt before he can wriggle his hands under the chains and fish the file out. The needle rolls onto the floor besides him, a gentle click as it settles between two humming energy lines. 

The bilgesnipe’s eyes open as his fingertips scratch the file. He scrabbles to reach it, hands straining against the tight-wound chains and his fitted trouser leg – _fucking leather pants_ – and is blasted by an angry bellow before he can catch hold. His grip slips. The file is a millimeter out of reach, and if only he had more time… 

Only there’s no more time. The bilgesnipe curls its sleep-heavy limbs and lunges. 

And Kraglin whirls around, screeching louder than a banshee, and empties the syringe into its eye. 

The bilgesnipe screams too, and thrashes. Its leg catches him in the midsection. The claw rends – thank fuck – through the tether between him and the ceiling pipe, rather than his calves. 

Kraglin’s batted into the opposite wall as easily as a swatted fly. He scrambles into a seated position, gulping air, more winded than he’s ever been in his life. Hot blood sluices over his fingers. He can’t tell if it’s the bilgesnipe’s or his; all pain has been obliterated in the present actuality of fear. 

That fear hones into terror as the bilgesnipe advances. 

It’s snarling louder than a rabid Kree, froth bubbling from the corners of its stretched lips. The tranq needle prongs from its eyesocket like a miniature javelin, pathetically tiny, inconsequential in comparison to its bulk. Kraglin scrabbles along the wall. His feet are still tangled, and there’s no way, just no way, that he’s getting out of this one. 

And so… Well, what’s he got left to lose? 

Kraglin grabs another syringe. It’s cracked; there’s sticky blue liquid leaking over his fist. But the bilgesnipe doesn’t know that. All it recognizes is the instrument in his hand, and the fact that another such weapon is currently lodged in its eyeball and delivering a concentrated dose of anesthetic metatoxins direct to its brain. It sways to one side, then the other. Conflicted. Hesitant. 

“That’s right,” Kraglin gasps. “You better be scared.” 

He grabs a syringe for his other hand, and brandishes them akimbo, as threateningly as he can. The bilgesnipe paws at its gushing eye. The other squints at him with a dark animal intelligence. Its nostrils flap like gills; Kraglin, breathing through his nose, prays that it can’t smell fear. He keeps talking, mostly to keep himself sane. 

“C’mon then. C’mon. You think you’re so big? You think you’re scary? Yeah? Well, I got news for ya, Baby. You ain’t nothing.” His voice raises. “I beat the betting pool! I’ve lasted two fuckin' months. Heck, I’ve pissed off half the most deadly people on this crew, and survived! Course I ain’t afraid of you!” 

The bilgesnipe… wobbles. Just a little. It claws scrape the pipes as it resettles its balance, and snarls in Kraglin’s face. Kraglin holds his ground. 

“I ain’t afraid of you,” he repeats. Looks it dead in the eyes – in the eye. Holds his syringes firm and steady. “I got two more of these, but you only got one eye left. You wanna keep it? Get the fuck back.” 

“You know it can’t understand you, right?” Yondu calls. Kraglin can’t be distracted, not now. Break that gaze for an instant, and he’s dead. 

“Just shoot it,” he says. 

Yondu, eclipsed by the bilgesnipe’s spiny hulk, laughs. Kraglin can hear him jumping around, avoiding the lashing tail, searching for a place to aim his shot. “You sure ya don’t wanna keep talking? You were havin' quite the lil moment.” 

Jackass. 

Kraglin’s eyes are watering. He needs to blink. But the bilgesnipe’s pupil is searing a cold scour into him, and he doesn’t dare lower his eyelids, not for a fraction of a second. 

“Shoot the fucking thing, sir,” he says. “Please.” 

There’s a grunt and a scuffle of leather over pipes. Then he spots Yondu’s head in the shadows between Baby’s legs – crazy bastard’s dived under its tail, getting himself a sighting of its soft underbelly. Kraglin, deadlocked by the bilgesnipe’s gaze, can’t watch him plaster on a cold smile – but he can hear it in his voice. 

“Gotcha, Baby.” 

Yondu squeezes the trigger. The tranq bites Baby’s throat. 

After that, everything is immediate. 

Baby’s eye whips from Kraglin. It screams, an earsplitting, awful roar of anger and agony that has Kraglin slamming his palms over his ears and cringing against the wall. Its fangs gnash, the only warning before it lunges for him. Kraglin flings himself sideways, chain whipping out and slapping it over the snout. He gets a gobbit of drool in his eye as jaws snap above his head. Baby, already doddery from the syringe in its eye, senses its nerves failing and thrashes harder than ever, beating itself off the walls. Kraglin’s too busy curling into a defensive ball to see what happens to Yondu, who’s trapped under the bilgesnipe’s main body. He can’t imagine it’s pleasant. 

It's no more than ten seconds between the punch of the dart through scaled skin and the moment Baby crashes chin-first onto the tunnel floor. But it might as well have been hours. Kraglin uncurls slowly, barely daring to believe it’s over. His legs are raw from the rubbing of the chain, wet grazes sliming the inside of his leathers. He tests his throat and finds it ragged. 

“Y-Yondu?” he stutters. Coughs. Tries again. “Yondu? You alive?” There’s a moan, from the region of the bilgesnipe’s hind quarters. Kraglin, deciding that a little vindictiveness is well-deserved, nevertheless can’t hold back his relieved smile. “What was that? You say something?” 

The moan becomes a growl. “Get… This… Offa… Me…” 

Kraglin works his pants over his hips, unclasps the file, and zips up again before setting to work on the chains. “It’s your pet,” he singsongs, over the scritch of metal on metal. “If it’s too heavy, you oughta put it on a diet.” 

There’s a drawn out pause. Kraglin, eardrums dampened from that last awful bellow, doesn’t hear Yondu shift, or bite down on a yelp. 

“Dammit, Kraglin!” There’s a boot, if he looks closely; sticking out from under the bilgesnipe’s tail. Kraglin smirks at it, and files harder. Chips of metal bastion his knuckles. Let Yondu squirm a while. He certainly deserves it. 

The boot twitches, followed by a sharp intake of breath. “What is it?” Kraglin asks. Then sniggers. “Don’t tell me ya didn’t have it housetrained.” 

Yondu, sandwiched between the floor, the bilgesnipe’s squishy underbelly, and its decidedly less squishy haunches, clenches his fists and wishes he could move enough to wipe the sweat out of his eyes, or failing that, flip Kraglin off. “Think my leg’s broke,” he croaks. 

Kraglin jerks, halfway through his sawing. The file gashes his thumb. “Fuck! You serious?” 

There’s a pained snort. “Nah. M'being squished by a bilgesnipe for the shits and giggles.” 

Clenching his jaw, Kraglin resets the file and scratches harder. Fresh blood dribbles from his thumb, staining an already crusty sleeve. “I’ll getcha out. Just… just gimme a sec. Kinda tied up, here.” Everything’s sticky and sweaty and smells of bilgesnipe-breath; his grip slides about the unbound metal handle of the file like he’s trying to jerk it off. It skids over a rough weld-scar between chain links, spitting sparks. Kraglin hunches and puts his back into the task, working his arm back and forth until his scarred chest protests. “Hey, uh, can you keep talking to me?” he pants. “Probably best if ya don’t nod off just yet.” 

Yondu’s boot wiggles again. There’s a whimper of a laugh. “Kinda hard t’talk… With Baby on m’back…” 

There’s an innuendo in here somewhere, but Kraglin’s not in the mood to find it. He flexes his aching fingers and drops the file, twisting the remaining segment holding the chain together until it snaps. “Alright, I’m out. Uh.” He scopes all fourteen muscular meters of Baby, from snout to tail. “How’m I supposed to get it off you?” 

Yondu’s groan is muffled, but no less exasperated. “I don’t give a shit.” A pause. “An' Baby’s a she.” 

“How can ya…” Kraglin trails off. “Tell. Right.” Kicking the chains away, he sidles over, inspecting the nearest clawed foot. “I’m gonna try something. Uh. Scream if it hurts, yeah?” 

Another groan. “Aw, just geddon with it. I can’t feel my fingers.” 

Get on with it. _Oh-kay_. Kraglin crouches down, thinks for a moment, and loops the end of the chain between Baby’s toes. “She could use a manicure,” he tells Yondu. It’s not funny but he laughs anyway, just a little grating puff that makes his boot shake. Kraglin winds the chain out, finds the splintered end, and feeds it through the loose pipe next to where the rest of it is tied. For once he’s grateful that he’s tall enough to reach without a stepladder. He’s not so grateful about being a lanky twig though, when he heaves on the makeshift pulley with all his strength and Baby’s leg budges barely an inch. 

“Shit,” he mutters, pulling again. And again. Then, wiping sweat and blood off his palms, rubs his hands and jumps. He swings on the chain like a pendulum. Baby’s foot hoists a half-meter. “Any better?” he yells. He can see more of Yondu’s leg now, and – well, it sure ain’t supposed to be bent in that direction. But at least it’s no longer being crushed under Baby’s pelvis. “Yep. That’s broken. Definitely. Quite. Broken.” 

“Cheers, Doc,” Yondu says. Kraglin slips down the chain, bootsoles brushing the floor, but manages to keep the tension so the leg doesn’t go crashing down again. 

“Can ya move? At all?” 

There’s a ripple in the folds of skin gathered where Baby’ belly sags across the floor. “Lil bit.” His breath sounds like it’s coming shorter. Kraglin’s arms are straining at the shoulder socket, and he has to fight to keep his heels on the ground. 

“I gotta put this down,” he gasps eventually. Then, forcing his tone to be cheery – “Don’t worry. Don’t worry. I’ll try something else. There’s gotta be something else.” 

“Ain’t worried,” Yondu grumbles. Although the noise he makes when Kraglin carefully releases the chain and resettles Baby’s weight on his crooked femur suggests otherwise. Kraglin winces. 

“Just… stay there, yeah?” he says, backing away. Yondu pants out something that might be a ‘duh’. “I’ll go get… something.” 

And off he trots. 

________________________________________ 

He comes across his discarded plasma rifle, and dithers over the selection of knives that Dagada’d stripped from his person. He could always _chop_ Baby off of him. But if Yondu wanted her dead, he’d have whistled by now. It’s while he contemplates this that he remembers that firstly, Dagada’s still out there, and secondly, he’d made a very passable attempt at killing him. Making him bait. Whatever. 

And Yondu, the target of that bait, is currently being squished under a convenient immovable ton of bilgesnipe. 

Bait… _Bait_. 

Kraglin slips a knife up his sleeve, and smiles.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So. Kraglin's coming into his own - finally. Dagada's almost as big a jerk as Yondu. Yondu is squished under a bilgesnipe for the foreseeable future. Tune in on Monday for more! :D**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **(And leave me comments, because I love them xoxoxo)**
> 
>  
> 
> **In case it's not clear - the boys had all of their usual weapons on them, plus (in Kraglin's case) some antique stuff he nicked from Yondu's ship. But they were _trying_ to catch Baby alive, so weren't really expecting to use them - which is why Dagada's pissed off that Yondu nabbed the only tranq-gun that might actually be effective. Jerkass.**
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> 


	21. Chapter 21

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin finally gets his turn at being the Big Damn Hero.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Shit gon go dooooooown**

According to Yondu, whose voice isn’t so much gravelly as it is tarmacked and steamrolled, Baby’s due to be out for twelve hours. Possibly more, given the extra dose courtesy of Kraglin. Kraglin’s still not entirely comfortable reclining next to those massive jaws, lax as they are in sleep – but it’s for the greater good, and at the end of the day Yondu’s got it worse than him. So he sucks it up. Scoops a handful of gooey blood from Baby’s desiccated eye socket – leaving the syringe where it is in a burst of spite – and, with a grimace, lathers his leathers from neck to waist. Then he arranges himself, and waits.

It doesn’t take long. 

There’s a creak from the end of the hall. A soft hum of warming blaster pistols. Then a depowering click, as Dagada scans the scene before him – an unconscious bilgesnipe, a gore-spattered rookie and the only sign of Udonta a motionless boot – and decides there’s no point wasting plasma. The pistols are slotted back into their holsters. Dagada pads closer. His boots squeak inches from Kraglin’s shoulders. Kraglin, facing the leathery tip of Baby’s snout, curls his fingers around the knife hilt and holds his breath. 

And continues to hold it. Until Dagada completes his survey and, lifting his leg, makes to step over him. 

Then Kraglin surges up, wrapping eel-like around Dagada’s calf. He pushes the blade against his thigh, firm enough to slit the leather. 

“Move,” he says, “and say bye-bye to your femoral artery.” 

This close, he can feel Dagada’s gulp. He chuckles, tapping long fingers up his inseam. “Yeah, that’s right. I ain’t got no fancy Nova education like you, but I know what this sucker is. And right now, I can gouge it before ya can pull the trigger on your blasters –“ Dagada’s hands cease inching towards his belt. Kraglin smirks. “- So don’t try it. Now, how's about you take 'em outta their holsters and drop ‘em on the ground? Next to me, that’s right.” He waits until Dagada obeys. Then grabs one and holds it on Dagada, while he sleeves the knife and picks up the other. This, he jams against the back of Dagada’s head. 

“Walk,” he says. Dagada walks. 

Kraglin guides him around the bilgesnipe. Yondu’s silent – Kraglin only prays he hasn’t passed out. He shoves Dagada along, smacking him across the ears with the flat of the barrel when he slows to pick his way over the helices of Baby’s tail. What can he say? His crown’s smarting from that cracker of a pistol-whip; if he can’t return the favor, he can at least relish having Dagada at his mercy and unable to bully him back. 

Kraglin halts them once the length of chain hooked through the pipe is swatting at Dagada’s belt buckle. “Now, tie yourself up to that. Nice and tight. That’s it.” He checks to make sure Dagada’s well and truly trussed. Of course, the man attempts a slip-knot – but Kraglin’s no idiot and patiently noogies the pistol against his temple until he does it right. Once he’s satisfied, he steps back. 

“Ready!” he calls to Yondu. There’s no reply. Kraglin shakes himself. If there’s one thing his time with the Ravagers has proved, it’s that Yondu’s a tough bastard. One little bilgesnipe ain’t gonna take him down. Not for more than one count, anyway. “Ready,” he repeats for his own benefit. He yanks on the chain to ensure it’ll take their combined weight. The barrel gets pressed under the Dagada’s chin, so that if it’s jostled when they jump there’ll only be one head exploding. 

Kraglin spares a last worried glance at Yondu’s boot – if the guy can’t pull himself out, this’s all gonna be for nothing. Then he wraps his arms around Dagada’s shoulders, and sweeps his legs from under him. 

The chain snaps taut. Dagada drops, Kraglin wrapped around him like a lanky crab. A dig of the pistol dissuades the first mate from sabotaging their leverage by pushing off the floor again. At the other end of the pulley, Baby’s hind leg hoists like that of a Morag canine that’s found a fire hydrant to desecrate. The chain doesn’t creak – but the pipe does, alarmingly. Kraglin glances at it, sees the straining bolts, and yells – 

“Yondu! Now!” 

Baby’s as light as she’s gonna get. If Yondu doesn’t take this chance… 

Kraglin gushes relief like a broken engine valve as Yondu’s broken leg begins to emerge. It’s followed by a thigh, a belt, a rumpled leather trenchcoat, and finally, a pair of trembling shoulders and a head. Yondu drags himself from under the shadow of Baby’s ankle, just as the pipe gives out and deposits Kraglin, Dagada, several feet of chain, and a deluge of freezing phosphorescent blue coolant onto the floor. 

Kraglin’s saved from the worst of the burns by his jacket. Dagada, with his shorn-off sleeves, isn’t nearly so lucky. 

“Get off me!” he screams in Kraglin’s ear. “Degenerate filth!” Cold red scald marks grow over the tattooed flames like frost on a windscreen. Kraglin, wincing as a similarly raw patch makes itself known on his cheek, rolls to the drier side and struggles to his knees. 

“Yondu?” he calls. 

“M’good.” And he is. Yondu’s sitting slumped against the wall, coolant shivering harmlessly off his coat. There’s a few burns on his face and hands too, but nothing serious. Kraglin’s eyes drift to the broken leg, outstretched in front of him, and widen in sympathy. “Aw, don’t make that face. Ain’t so bad.” 

Liar. 

Kraglin is, for some unfathomable reason, lured to touch it. But he knows he’d do more harm than good, and anyway, Yondu’s shaky scowl forbids it. He crosses to sit besides him instead, leaving Dagada to wriggle and whimper his way out of the puddle of coolant on his lonesome, the chain strapped around him in a corroded orange-iron straitjacket. “What we gonna do about him?” 

Dagada freezes – and not just because the liquid caking his hair and face has started to crackle and solidify. His malevolent grey eyes flick to Yondu’s arrow, then narrow in preparation. 

Oh, he knows the shitpile he’s in. There’s no escape from this: one whistle and he’s finished. Kraglin, for one, can’t wait. 

But, after letting the silence simmer, Yondu scoffs and turns away. “Ain’t in no state to be dragging him to an airlock,” he says. Lets his head flop against the wall with a pained sniff; the hand hovering above his leg clenches and unclenches on air. “Captain’ll sort him out, I wager.” 

Despite his aversion to corpse-wrangling, Kraglin’s tempted to volunteer. But there’s other things to fret about than vengeance. He leans in, tapping Yondu’s slumped shoulder. “And Baby?” 

Yondu’s eyes open a slit. He surveys the heap of bilgesnipe, a mountain of piled muscle and claw that overflows their tunnel and spills into the one besides. The spines along her back rattle against the ceiling pipes, expanding and contracting with every slow breath. “Comm Jora,” he says. His voice rasps high in its register, whistles creeping around the edges of the words. “We can keep her in the low hold for now. I ain’t used no more tranqs than necessary, so we should be able to make the drop off on schedule.” 

Kraglin nods. Then remembers he doesn’t have a wristpiece. He uses Yondu’s instead, plucking his hand out of his lap to prod at the customized controls. Dagada watches them darkly. Kraglin prays Yondu won’t notice, summoning a projected ledger of names that appears to be some sort of speed-dial. Jora is probably near the top, but he’s managed to invert the whole thing and is scrolling upwards from Horuz. But then the floppy wrist in his grip goes stiff, and Yondu pulls away. 

“What you lookin' at?” he snarls. Dagada’s blistered brows raise. 

“You tell me.” 

Kraglin’s stomach sinks. _They musta seen us_. That’s what Yondu’d said, when they’d first found Baby missing. _Whoever took her, they musta seen us_. The dislodged hatch meant that Baby’d been evacuated vertically rather than squeezed through the main body of the ship – but in order to find her in the first place, Dagada had to have walked through the sleeping area. Dagada knew. _Why does it matter?_ Kraglin wants to yell. _Why would anyone give a shit?_

But then he remembers how Dagada’d followed him, singled him out to bait his trap – and how it had very almost worked. He gnaws his lip, considering. Then quietly reclaims Yondu’s wrist. Yondu lets him. 

There’s Jora’s name. Right at the top, like he thought. Under it are Varra’s, and his own. Kraglin swallows. “Y’know, you’ve still got Varra’s…?” 

“Shut up,” Yondu says, still glaring at Dagada. Dagada, who coughs out a laugh, sputtering coolant. 

“Varra? You keep the contact of a dead man? Knew you were soft.” 

Kraglin bares his teeth, jabbing Jora’s icon. “Yeah, Varra said that too. Keep it up, and you’ll end up the same way. Oh hey – Captain! Captain Jora?” 

Jora picks up immediately, buzzing into view. She clocks his face – not blue, not Yondu – but barely pauses. “Report.” 

Kraglin salutes. “Bilgesnipe’s accounted for, ma’am. Sedated and awaiting transport.” Then, on the offchance she’s more worried than she’s letting on: “My wristpiece’s broken. S’why I’m on Yondu’s. He’s fine, really – “ 

Jora ends the connection. 

Kraglin drops Yondu’s hand with a sigh. “She always like that?” 

Yondu’s not looking at him. “Yeah. Pretty much.” 

There’s… nothing he can say. Kraglin’s never had a mother-figure – although he suspects that the insinuation that that’s what Jora is to Yondu will be met with violence, of the type which usually preludes grievous bodily harm. He’s got no words of consolation, or empathy. He nods instead. “Guess we hang around until the reinforcements arrive.” 

Yondu’s eyes tighten where they’re fixed on Dagada’s tense form. Baby’s a forgotten mountain, faded, banished to the background as Yondu and Dagada dominate the fore. “Guess we do,” he says. 

________________________________________ 

“This's weird,” says Kraglin, hopping onto the stool and resting his chin against his bent knee. There’s a thread, fraying around a patch of leather more maroon than red; it tickles when he inhales. “I mean, s'usually the other way around.” 

Yondu twists on the gurney to face him, eyebrows cinching as he jostles his leg. Doc, busy setting the cast around it, makes an aggrieved noise under his breath. “Don’t get used to it,” he slurs. 

Kraglin smirks. “Yessir.” 

It’s the next morning. A bunch of nervy Ravagers had tiptoed around Baby, rolled her onto a tarp and attached it to the back of one of the loading vehicles from the Hangar bay – Kraglin assumes that’s how Dagada’d moved her in the first place. The tarp dragged and jerked across the uneven flooring, and Lizard-guy, enjoying a suspension-smoothed ride in the driver’s seat, jerked and flinched every time. 

Funny, how he doesn’t seem so big any more. 

Figs had shown up to help haul Yondu to the medbay. She hadn’t said a word to either of them, despite Kraglin’s half-hearted attempts at conversation. He’s barely seen her since the Varra incident. Since discovering that he was the catalyst he’s wondered if he owes her an apology after all – but it’d sound kinda trite, coming this late. And heck, Varra was the one who decided to go confront Yondu. It was practically suicide. Anyway, then was definitely not the time – not with Yondu sagging between them, and Dagada, blistered and shivering, glaring plasma bolts into their backs. 

Dagada. He’s stretched out on the table besides, swaddled in anti-freezeburn patches from knuckle to elbow. Kraglin’s got one plastered over his cheek, and Yondu’s got two, one on the right half of his skull just below the implant and the other behind his ear. Aches like a bitch, if it’s anywhere as puss-filled as Kraglin’s. He’ll keep his bonny good looks though. They both will. 

Dagada’s not going to be so lucky. 

At Kraglin’s words he blinks awake – had probably be only pretending to sleep in the first place, to escape Yondu’s relentless snark – and treats them to equal scowls. ‘I won’t forget this’, he mouths. 

“Sorry,” says Kraglin, cupping his ear. “Didn’t catch that.” Dagada’s scarred cheek hitches into a sneer. He rubs the bandage on his throat and, after a moment’s deliberation, looks directly at Kraglin and draws his finger across it. 

Yeah. That’s not subtle at all. 

Kraglin disguises his shiver, turning back to Yondu. “How long before you’re outta here? A certain person said something about, uh, a storage room. And some moonshine.” He can’t relay more details; Doc’s listening, and there’s Dagada to think about too. He’ll never be forgiven if their party gets busted. But when Yondu rolls his eyes and mutters ‘Isla’, Kraglin confirms it with a nod. He’s distracted by Doc, who punches the final staple into Yondu’s cast and gives it a warning rap. 

“No alcohol. Not until the anesthetic's worn off.” 

Yondu gapes at him. “What the – I told ya not to use none! Didn’t I tell ya? Y’know I don’t like being all fuzzy.” He casts a dirty look at Dagada. “Especially not across the row from him.” 

Dagada bares his teeth right back. Kraglin steps in before a fight can break out. It’s only sporting to let Dagada recover enough to talk before siccing Yondu on him. “C’mon,” he tells Yondu. “You can walk it off and party after.” Doc looks like he might protest to that too, but when Kraglin purses his mouth over to one side and shrugs – _it’s the best you’re gonna get_ – he relents. 

“Alright. You’re off active duty until it heals though. No solos. No missions of any kind. And, after last time, I must remind you – a cast is not to be used as a bludgeon. Under any circumstances.” 

Yondu swings to the edge of the bed and tests the weight of it in his hands. “Dunno. Reckon I could cave a coupla skulls with it.” 

“And irreparably damage your joints as you do so,” Doc says. He’s got all four hands propped on his waist. Apparently, this isn’t the first time they’ve had this conversation. “Next time I see you in here, I’ll listen when you ask for no anesthetic. Perhaps that’ll teach you a lesson.” 

Yondu grins. “I doubt it.” 

If he keeps winding him up, Doc’ll make good on his promise. Kraglin kicks the gurney to get his attention, and thumbs towards the exit. Quartermaster’d had a whole bunch of crutches, but Kraglin hadn’t been sure which were in Yondu’s size. He supposes he’s skinny enough to do for now – although Yondu’s not likely to lean on him when there’s anyone else around. They’ll have to limp over to the storage deck before feeding Baby. 

That’s gonna be fun. 

Kraglin bids adieu to another eventful day and another… three? Four? Close death experiences. If Dagada turns to watch them leave, eyes narrowed in thought, Kraglin’s too busy thanking his lucky stars to notice.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yes Yondu. Letting Dagada live is an excellent idea. Next chappie on Wednesday!**


	22. Chapter 22

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu is a role model, for once in his life. Don’t drink after having anaesthetic. Just… don’t.**

One hour later sees them trudging below decks, down into the musty dark of the bilgesnipe’s lair.

Well, Kraglin trudges. Yondu limps. When the quartermaster couldn’t find two crutches of any one size in the whole of his stores, Yondu, still woozy, had blamed Dagada. When Kraglin pointed out that Dagada had yet to leave the medbay and that this was just the result of bad scavenging, Yondu gritted his teeth and blamed that on Dagada too. 

“Damn idiot!” he rages, leaning against the canteen trolley as Kraglin unlocks Baby’s cell. “Doc and quartermaster say they need more supplies! But Jora’s too much a _coward_ to attack anything larger than a mini-med cruiser thas' gone off course, and Dagada’s too dumb to stage an ambush! You see what I gotta work with? It… It ain’t fair!” Kraglin, peering nervously into the space beyond – the grubby walls of which are lit only by a flickering bulb that makes it look like it could stand in as a set for a Xandarian slasher holoflick – prays that Baby’s a heavy sleeper. And that Jora doesn’t have any spies sneaking about this level of the ship. 

“Y’know?” he says, patting Yondu on his heaving shoulder and easing him against the wall. The cast thumps the uneven floor paneling, and his face screws up belatedly, like the pain’s taking a moment to filter. “I think you’re still high. How about you stay put, and I’ll go dump the meat. And clean up the crap an' all.” 

“That’s a good plan,” Yondu slurs, slumping down and wincing as his cast scrapes the entire way. He props his crutches next to his head – then sighs when they slip, and lays them over his lap instead. “Why can’t captain come up with good plans like that? You’re a good planner, Krags. I like you.” 

If only he knew which icon on his wristpiece recorded. “Thanks, sir. You can tell me again when you ain’t juiced to the gills.” 

He steps into the makeshift cage, treading lightly. It’s acquired a warm, stinky animal hum; rotten meat-breath, damp fur and carnivore-shit; which Kraglin suspects he’ll be scrubbing for a week to eradicate. Pushing the trolley that Shorro had sullenly loaded with raw meat scraps into the room’s center, he glances at the snoring Baby, shoulders his shovel, and heads for the nearest pile. 

It doesn’t take him too long, all in all. He scoops the poop into another bucket – there’s no one around to grimace at, so he just sets his face and bears it. Then, generously deciding that whatever her crimes against him, Baby doesn’t deserve to squirm over the sticky patch in her sleep, he sponges the worst of the slime off the metal and splashes it over with water from her bowl. Ain’t five-star accommodation. But it’s the best they can provide (and, while he’s hardly gonna suggest as much to Yondu, this smuggling bunker’s a helluva lot sturdier than the crappy wooden crate lying busted and splintered in his M-ship). He figures it’ll last ‘em till they reach Knowhere, at least. 

Then they can deliver Baby over to the Collector, and be on their way. Whatever business he has with her, it ain’t none of theirs. 

That’s what Kraglin tells himself. 

Still, he’s not going to get answers by mooning into her empty eyesocket. Hefting the steaming bucket, Kraglin waves bye-bye to Baby. When you’ve suffered through salivating jaws and meat-breath inches from your face, the sight of her slumbering at a distance can be called cute, if you’re feeling generous. Very, very generous. She’s like a kitten, really – a massive, ugly, scythe-clawed kitten that’s been crossbred with a dinosaur; but a kitten nonetheless, and one that needs affection and love. Kraglin squats, bucket resting on the dull scuffed steel, and props his chin on his hand. Why, she’s borderline _tranquil_ (which admittedly, might have something to do with the massive amounts of opiate-based soporific pumping through her system). Watching the steady heave of her chest, the bulge and flutter of her nostrils, he’s a little guilty about delivering her to a future of glass cages and terrible fashion choices. A beast like this deserves to be free. Running through a forest somewhere. Terrorizing small villages. Not… not locked up to be gawped at. 

Baby snuffles and rolls, yawning. 

Kraglin manages not to piss himself through sheer willpower. He scrambles out the door, slams it and locks it so fast that he almost drops the bucket on his foot. Scratch all that; the Collector’s welcome to her. 

The bucket’s contents, thankfully, are too stodgy to slop – he ain’t sure how you convince a fourteen meter bilgesnipe with teeth made for bone-crunching to get more fiber in their diet, but that’s the Collector’s problem. He still nearly upends it over Isla when she pops up by his hip and elbows him in the thigh-nerve. Isla dodges back, cackling. 

“Nice handbag ya got there, Krags!” 

Kraglin lowers the bucket, pins and needles jarring up his leg. “It nearly went over your head,” he warns. Isla doesn’t look especially worried at the prospect. 

She heads to Yondu, passing a hand in front of his eyes. “ _Eclector_ to Udonta? Anyone in?” Yondu blinks out of whatever daze he’d fallen into. Wedges his crutches between the floor grills and starts the arduous task of levering himself upright. Kraglin doesn’t dare offer help, not with Isla here – who, taking in the leg that’s bound thigh-to-toe in rough white plaster, whistles under her breath. 

“Nice. You tried kicking anyone with it yet?” 

“You could be the first,” Yondu offers. Kraglin insinuates himself between them, bucket held up in warning. 

“Uh, no. Doc’s orders. And no alcohol either. So sorry Isla, but if this’s about the moonshine –“ 

“Who made you my nurse?” Yondu interrupts, glowering at him. He’s looking at Kraglin like he’s an extension of the bucket. Which is… well, all kinds of rude and unfair, but hardly unexpected. Isla raises her eyebrows and finds an interesting string of rust to examine on the doorpost. Kraglin sighs. 

“I’d say 'knock yourself out then sir', but you actually would. And I’d have to lug yer heavy ass back to the medbay.” 

Yondu’s preparing to retaliate – possibly test out his cast on him instead – when Jora’s name pops out of his wristpiece, flashing like a demented bioluminescent species dredged from an ocean trench. Kraglin, who’s picked up a spare chronometer from the quartermaster and had it coded for him while Yondu was in with Doc, blinks at the matching icon fanning in front of his own face. _Captain Calling_. That’s… a surprise. 

“Saved by the bell!” Isla smacks Kraglin on the ass – his bucket jolts alarmingly – and waves a cheery farewell to Yondu. “Meet me tonight,” she tells him, circumnavigating Kraglin’s warning – or perhaps ignoring it completely. Isla does have impressively selective hearing. “Usual place. Whole gang’s there – ‘cept Varra, of course.” 

Kraglin manages not to jump. She winks at him and saunters off, swinging her broad hips like a wrecking ball. Ass smarting and wire bucket handle digging into the meat of his palm, Kraglin watches her go. Once she’s out of earshot, he turns on Yondu. “What she said… D’you think she knows…?” 

“'Bout Varra?” Yondu shrugs. “Dunno. Don’t care neither, so long as she don’t go bringing it up in conversation.” 

Right. That’s the way it works round here. You can murder your friends if they badmouth you, then swan off for a pint with the gang after. Kraglin presses the commlink more as an excuse to think of something else than out of any real desire to be chewed out by the Ravager captain; he blinks when, instead of the usual animated mugshot, a full-sized hologram unrolls. 

“Bridge,” says Jora. “Now.” It’s a pre-recorded message – Yondu gets the exact same, echoing a half-beat after Kraglin’s own. Jora’s face is stern, as severe as Nova Prime’s and icier than engine coolant. Kraglin imagines that those dead pixelated eyes, half-buried in wrinkled raisin-skin, are scouring him to the soul. She reaches towards the camera and snaps it off. 

“That wasn’t her happy-voice, was it?” Kraglin asks. Yondu snorts. 

“Don’t think she’s got one of them.” 

________________________________________ 

Jora, to Kraglin’s surprise, meets them at the door of the Bridge with a smile and two glasses of neat. The latter, at least, are real. Her smile diminishes when the two of them make no move to accept her offering, Kraglin following Yondu’s lead. She fixes them with a rigid glare before marching up the gangway and plonking the drinks on the chart table in front of the captain’s chair. 

“Don’t just stand there,” she barks, flinging herself into it. The creak of old joints is drowned by rustling leather. “C’mon in!” 

Yondu looks at Kraglin. Kraglin looks at Yondu. They obey. 

Yondu’s crutches tap arythmically on the floor. One’s two inches too high, digging uncomfortably under his arm – so he leans most of his weight on the other, which being a mere centimetre too low is by far the better fit. The oversized crutch takes the deficit after Yondu’s swung his short crutch out and his good foot to follow it: a too-quick, unsteady clack of metal-on-metal, uneven as a triplicate heartbeat. His cast leg is angled stiff in front of him. Kraglin can see the effort that heaving himself up the ramp is costing; there’s sweat on his neck, and the tendons in his hands stand out where he grips the crutches too hard. He doesn’t look at Kraglin – at anyone really. Only the ramp before him. And his goal – Jora’s throne: a majestic obsidian obelisk at its far end. 

The Bridge crew have paused in their assigned tasks. Twelve pairs of eyes focus on them – on Yondu, really. Kraglin is, as usual, happy to shrink into his shadow. Those twelve pairs become thirteen when they ascend to the captain’s deck. Cheek resting on the withered shelf of a hand, Jora nods to the waiting stools. 

“Join me,” she says. Kicks the nearest to screech to a stop besides Kraglin’s boot. He wraps his hand around the back strut, but doesn’t move to take it until Yondu limps to the other, nudging it into place with his unused crutch. 

Jora nods when they’re both seated. Her flat glare is mostly reserved for Yondu – but it lingers on Kraglin too when he pulls up his chair. He meets it. Then quails, like she’s pulled a plasma rifle on him. After staring down assorted angry Ravagers and a bilgesnipe, you’d think he’d be hardened to the dourest of glowers; but Jora… Jora is something different. She’s older than the stars and as coldly fierce, and while Kraglin can’t read the nuances beneath her wintry expression, he doubts any of them are approving. Whatever her reason for playing nice, she’s not doing this of her own volition. 

The silence isn’t so much stretched as racked. When the Bridge crew are shuffling and antsy, Jora smiles again – practiced enough to look perfect – and gestures to the drinks with an arthratoid claw. 

“Bottoms up, boys,” she orders. “You sure deserve it.” 

Yondu’s blue fingers close on the perspiring glass. Kraglin copies, deciding that captain’s orders ovveride Doc’s recommendation. Not that he could _stop_ Yondu from drinking if he set his mind to it. But he figures, if you can’t beat ‘em… Before he can toss it back, Yondu lifts his tumbler to eye-level and treats the inch of amber liquid swilling around its bottom to an accusatory sneer. 

“S'it poisoned?” 

Kraglin’s lips freeze on the rim. There’s another awkward silence. Then Jora proves that she does, in fact, know how to laugh: slapping Yondu hard across his burly shoulders. Judging by the pop of his eyes and the loud oof, that blow contains a bit more power than one would expect from an age-wizened arm. 

“Nice to know you're still a paranoid shit, Udonta. I got better ways of killing you than poison – and didn’t I say that this is a reward?” The flat line of Yondu’s mouth doesn’t tic. He places the drink on the table, untouched, with a defiant clink. Jora’s smile becomes more and more hollow. Kraglin looks between them, and settles his own glass down. Just in case. The tension fizzles like sparks from a torn conduit line, and he wishes he could slip under the table and hide away. 

“Rookie,” says Jora eventually, not looking at him. It’s enough to lock the curious stares of a dozen Ravagers’ onto him though, and Kraglin withers low in his jacket collar. 

“Yes ma’am?” he mutters. Jora shunts Yondu’s glass over. 

“Drink that.” 

Kraglin’s mouth opens around a protest. Then slowly shuts again. Can’t say no to the captain. 

…But she wouldn’t really poison him, would she? 

Surely not. Not even if she wanted to. He’s Hraxian! Immune to all but the most potent toxins; and anyway, Yondu’s babbling – whatever insecurity is being aired, it’s the anesthetic talking. 

Right? 

The pleading look Kraglin sends him is met with a shrug. Kraglin fingers the glass. It’s just acting, he tells himself. Yondu amping up the dickishness to get back at Jora for not punishing Dagada – or maybe, maybe he’s trying to ensure that no one’ll accuse him of being soft and caring about one dumb greenie. Because no way would Yondu let him do this. Not if he really thought… 

Kraglin’s throat clicks. The glass is cool, condensation smeared in the shape of Yondu and Jora’s whorled fingerprints. He smooths his own over them, and lifts it slowly to his lips, watching Yondu for any hint, any glimpse… 

None comes. 

Alright. No more hesitation. Kraglin tosses back glass and head alike, and doesn’t let the liquid rest on his tongue. It sizzles through him, fire and whiskey and old sweet malt. He waits for pain. For froth. When no agony develops and his spittle remains un-rabid, he lowers the tumbler triumphantly, stomach warm. “Hey, that was some good stuff, ma’am. Looks like it’s okay-“ 

“See?” Jora says, cutting across with the casual grace of one accustomed to doing so. She lifts the full tumbler from Kraglin’s place, nails clicking off the glass, and sets it heavily before Yondu. “Now _drink_.” 

Yondu side-eyes it like he suspects it’s gonna bite. “Ya think I don’t know you’d poison ‘em both?” 

A noisy sigh. The second glass is sent Kraglin’s way too. 

Both of them watch expectantly. Aw heck. What’s one more gonna do? Shrugging, Kraglin knocks it back. Again, he relishes the warm burn. Again, he waits ten seconds. Then coughs – and is gratified when Yondu jumps in his seat, fists clenching around the crutches. Kraglin coughs again. Holds up a finger. Then puts his fist over his mouth and lets the liquor settle, before thumping the empty glass down besides the first. 

“Nice. You got any more of that, ma’am?” He’s ignored. 

“So,” says Jora, through a clenched smile. “Now that we’ve gotten the obligatory celebration out the way, how’s about you tell me why I got a whole crew singin' your praises for catching that blasted thing, when you was the one who brought it aboard in the first place?” 

Yondu’s grin is sharp and deadly. “I guess they’re seein' it was a good idea all along. Y’know, ya can’t expect folks to sit tight on pennies forever.” He leans over the table, darkened by the prints of their wet tumblers. Peeping at the rest of the Bridge crew, Kraglin assures himself that they’re out of hearing range and leans in as well. “We got one of the biggest non-Empire fleets in the fuckin' galaxy. The crew know it, and sooner or later, they’re gonna start demanding we use it. They’re gonna want more. More jobs, more profits – the lot. And when they do…” His voice husks lower. “They’re gonna want a leader who they know ain’t afraid to give it to them.” 

The gradient of Jora’s eyebrows steepens. Wrinkles and liverspots slacken, drooping like slow motion waterfalls until the grain of her skin’s resettled around the frown. “Really,” she says. 

Kraglin gives Yondu’s cast a kick under the table. A very, very light one. Then looks the other way when Yondu flinches and smacks his shin with the crutch. He’s just trying to _help_. To save them from being shot, drawn and quartered right here. 

“Really,” Yondu repeats. He rests one hand flat on the table, jabbing the index of his other against the chipped metal finish. “And if you ain’t gonna be that person, you’d better make me your first mate again so I can be it for ya. Because look what happened to me. Ya don’t want Dagada thinkin' he can do a better job than you, too.” 

Jora sniffs. “Dagada, Dagada. It always comes down to Dagada with you. Y’know, I’m starting to wonder who the jealous one is.” 

When Yondu scoffs, the noise ricochets out of his throat with a serpentine rattle. “What’s that prick got that I don’t? Besides my fuckin’ title?” 

Jora’s eyes twitch to Kraglin. It’s so quick that he almost misses it, and he’s certain that Yondu does. “No limitations,” she says quietly. Kraglin’s belly twists up as Yondu growls. 

“And what's that supposed t’mean?” 

Jora hunches, matching the lean of Yondu’s tense spine. Their faces are inches apart, Yondu’s jaw pushed forwards and his yellow teeth bared, Jora’s hooked nose bonier than a beak. Her words are delivered in a tight-packed, venomous bundle. “That when I taught you boys _that lesson_ , only one of you listened.” 

Kraglin ain’t got the first clue what that means. But he sees the effect it has on Yondu. His eyes widen, nostrils flaring. Next moment he’s lurched to his feet – foot – and slammed his palms on the table. The crash is so loud that several nearby Bridge crew, caught in their attempts at eavesdropping, jerk out of their too-languid perusal of the monitors and scramble to look busy. 

Kraglin, neck hairs prickling, watches Yondu. Yondu doesn’t say a word. Just breathes, hot and heavy through his nose. He glares at Jora as if he’s considering bucking the table and goring her like an angry bull. 

“Sit down,” says Jora eventually. Yondu, muscles quivering, does so. His leg skids out to forty-five degrees, and Kraglin winces for him. “You may have won the crew’s favor,” Jora continues, whispering the words into the crackling space between them. “But you have yet to win back mine. However, I respect that – while ya were a _fucking idiot_ to hide it from me –“ Kraglin can’t help but agree there, “- Your bilgesnipe’s gonna pay well. And that as a fleet we are, perhaps, capable of more than I push us to achieve.” Before Yondu's smile can reach fruition, Jora taps her spider-thin, gnarl-knuckled fingers on the back of his hand. Her skin’s as discolored as old wood bark and about as tough; Kraglin imagines it feels like being beaten by a bushel of twigs. “This stunt’s earned ya another fortnight as a midshipman. After that... Who knows? Now fuck off and find someone else to annoy.” 

It’s as good a dismissal as any. Kraglin aborts his instinct to steady the crutches as Yondu struggles upright, knowing he’ll only be snapped at and shoved away. Yondu’s not glowering at Jora anymore, which is something. But his gaze is locked on some middle-distance only he can see. Kraglin shifts uneasily, rising from his chair. Somehow, this is worse. 

“C’mon,” he murmurs, when the brooding silence becomes too much to bear. “Let’s go.” Jora, legs crossed and sipping idly from a hipflask as she surveys the swirling aether, glances at his reflection in the glass. Kraglin avoids her gaze. “Isla’s waiting, and we got a lot of moonshine to drink. And a Doc to piss off.” 

That snaps Yondu out. Barging past Jora’s chair, he swings himself away from the Bridge, crutch-foot-crutch, crutch-foot-crutch. He doesn’t look back. 

If the grin that’s turned on Kraglin is more jagged than usual, he ain’t gonna mention it. “What happened to lil' nurse Kraglin?” he teases, once they’ve begun the long lope for Isla’s favorite cupboard. 

“He was poisoned,” says Kraglin flatly. Yondu’s smirk dissolves into snickers. He swipes his unused crutch across the corridor ahead of him, smacking any Ravagers who don’t get out the way. 

“Hey, I was tryin' to be good because you said I shouldn’t drink –“ 

“As if you were gonna listen to me!” 

The snicker becomes an all-out guffaw. “At least you ain’t stupid, rookie,” Yondu says, as they come to an unpopulated stretch. He presses his shoulder against Kraglin’s. It’s less of a nudge and more of a lean; with his face so close, Kraglin can see the stiff prickles of stubble between the scars on his jaw and the wrinkle of skin where the implant melds wonkily into the bone. The edge of a bandage is starting to peel. When Kraglin smooths it back on, Yondu makes a pleased, throaty noise, and Kraglin thinks he’s about to get kissed. But Yondu only ruffles his hair – then smacks him on the back of the knee with his crutch to get him walking again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, tensions are rising between Yondu and Jora...**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **A Warning: next chapter's gonna have some Kraglin/OFC. Yondu kinda endorses it, and it's not going to last, so don't worry.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Thanks for reading; please comment!**
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	23. Chapter 23

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Yondu is not a role model after all, Isla throws another party, and Kraglin makes a slightly soberer choice of bedmate.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So. This chappie contains a teensy-weensy bit of potentially-M-rated Kraglin/OFC. It honestly won't last! As it leads on to the next little arc in our story, I figured it was best not to cut it. So please try and bear with Dixie for the time being!**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **She's also some pretty blatant foreshadowing, if you've read The One With The Hostile Takeover/What Doesn't Kill You. Oh God, you're all going to hate me.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> **On with the story!**
> 
>  
> 
> ****

After their last conversation, Kraglin figures it ain’t right to booze with Yondu’s gang without inviting Morlug. He’s a bit awkward, shuffling over to Isla and inquiring whether she can join them, in a tone that’d be more suited to a Nova Corpsman than a Ravager; really, he deserves the wink and the coo.

“Course your lil’ lady friend can come along!” Isla snaps fingers in her wristwatch hologram to dredge up a face that matches Morlug’s name, then grins and claps her jangling hands. The knotted leather strings pinned to her cuffs clatter as loud as her studded fingers. “She’s the pink chick who’s always welding shit? Saw her yelling out Dagada a coupla days ago – girl’s got balls!” 

Kraglin quirks a corner of his mouth. “That she does,” he says. 

He knows Morlug’s flattered to be included – her voice doesn’t exceed its usual monotone, but the eye visible behind her curtain of waterlogged purple-black hair (she appears to be unblocking a showerhead, with great success) crinkles into a pleased crescent. 

Kraglin exhales when the comm switches off. Another prickly path smoothed over. He hopes. 

“She say yes?” asks Isla, searching through the boxy grey packing crates in search of one of a size for Yondu to use as a footrest. Kraglin nods. “Heck. I gotta admit, I’m impressed. That kid always seemed like a cold fish. Never thought I’d see the day when someone warmed her up.” 

Kraglin will not look at Yondu. He won’t do it. “She’s just a friend,” he says. Isla’s chortle tells him she doesn’t believe him. 

“C’mon – nineteen year old brat like you and a lass that pretty? You’d be nuts not to. Heck, I’d fuck her if she’d let me!“ 

Don’t picture it, don’t picture it. Damn, he’s picturing it. Kraglin slants his eyes to the opposite end of the storeroom, and chews on his thumbnail in lieu of an answer. 

“Tonight’s your night, Isla. If you an' her fancy a threesome, I’m game,” Yondu says. Then swigs from the bottle that’s somehow found its way into his hand. Isla gawps and stomps over. She has to shake it before he’ll let go. 

“I told ya, didn’t I? Don’t start til the others get here! I ain’t got much to go round.” 

Yondu shouldn’t really be drinking at all, but Kraglin’s not gonna start that argument again. He pulls himself up to sit crosslegged on the crate-stack nearest the door, and tries to pinpoint why he feels frustrated. It ain’t like he’s looking for something exclusive, is he? As Isla so kindly pointed out – he’s nineteen. Last thing he needs is a relationship with a twenty-mumble year old. And Ravagers don’t _do_ relationships anyway. Not as far as Kraglin can tell. 

Yondu’s decent conversation when he’s not being a jackass. He’ll save Kraglin’s neck if it’s needed, and he’ll occasionally deign to let Kraglin fuck him, if he gives as good in return (although he still has yet to get around to that). That’s all they are. 

…Shouldn’t that be enough? 

Kraglin chews his lip to blood and checks the time. Morlug’ll be here any second. Y’know what? Perhaps he will try it on with her. Or Figs, or Isla – any of the girls. Whatever he’s got going with Yondu, it can’t be permanent and it can’t be serious. If nothing else, the job won’t allow for it – friends are all you get, fuckbuddies if you’re lucky, and even then you’ve always got to be prepared to see them spiral down in smoke. 

He understands now, why they waited so long to ask his name. 

________________________________________ 

Figs bursts through the door with the short guy with long stinky feet and another woman who Kraglin can only assume is the mysterious boot-thrower from the top of Yondu’s stack. “Howdy,” she says shortly, allowing Isla to draw her into a hug before moving over to clap Yondu on the shoulder. She doesn’t look at Kraglin. Hoping that has everything to do with his strategically unobtrusive positioning of himself in the corner, and nothing to do with the bloody dustbin turning slow backflips through skrullspace, Kraglin turns his attention to the other woman and smiles. 

“Hey. Don’t think I caught your name.” She’s short, but not as short as Isla, and in possession of a pair of shapely legs that make up for her face. Sort of. When she smiles, the wind could whistle through her cheeks. Kraglin balks, but not much. “Uh, what happened to your, uh?” 

“I shot her,” Yondu calls. The girl points at him and nods, grinning. Kraglin blinks. His scarred chest throbs in sympathy. 

“Is this some ritual ya go though with everyone you meet, or just your way of saying ‘hello’?” 

Yondu’s bottle has found its way out of Isla’s pocket and back to his hand, despite that Kraglin could swear he hasn’t moved. Isla, from the way she’s chattering animatedly to foot-guy, has yet to notice. “Nah. Dixie here went on an undercover and blew it, so I had to prove I weren’t with her.” 

Kraglin blinks again. “And that’s not… a little… extreme?” 

Dixie, from the way she’s smiling, doesn’t think so. Yondu looks at him like she’s stupid. “Got us out, didn’t it?” 

Of course. Permanently disfiguring bodily harm comes with the day-job. Kraglin makes a show out of shaking Dixie’s hand. “S'nice to meet you, Dixie. I’m Kraglin Obfonteri –“ 

Dixie’s hands form a complex shape, three fingers crooked on one, two on the other, left pinky extended. Kraglin frowns. 

“That a shadow puppet or something?” 

Yondu scoffs into his drink. “She’s saying you don’t gotta speak slow; she can understand you.” 

“Oh – oh! Like… sign language?” Dixie nods. Her beam is relentlessly cheerful. Kraglin’s a little blinded by its kilowatt intensity, to be honest. But she’s pretty (bar a few extra wind-holes) and has accepted his less-than-sensitive opening gambit without making any threats on his life. Or perhaps he just hasn’t understood them. Kraglin tries to match her smile with one of his own, and feels woefully plastic in comparison. “Can you teach me?” he asks. “Just a bit?” 

“That’s better,” he thinks he hears Yondu mutter. But Dixie’s already grabbed his arm and pulls him into the middle of the room. She seats him down on a box, settles beside him with thighs bumping, and starts to sketch pictures with her hands. 

It’s… nice. It doesn’t take five minutes for Kraglin to engross himself completely, the rest of the room and its occupants paling. He thinks he hears Isla attempting to liberate her bottle from Yondu, but he’s too busy shaping out simple clauses that don’t require thumb dislocation to watch her fail. 

They play the game of her pulling up words on her wristpiece, and demonstrating how the different aspects of a simple sentence – subject, verb, object and such – can be represented in a logical progression from finger to thumb. Kraglin’s hoping to work up to charades – but he might be optimistic. This shit’s fucking complicated. A different angle on the thumb changes the tone of the entire sentence from positive to negative, and before he knows it he’s ended up insulting Dixie about her non-existent split-ends rather than contemplating her on the luster of her sleek red hair. She laughs it off. Shows him how to cup his hands together to simulate a flirtatious tone. Kraglin’s proud when he finally perfects a pick-up line – _If I had a star for every time you brightened my day, I’d have the whole galaxy in my hand._

Morlug arrives fashionably late. Kraglin, already crammed on the crate with Dixie and flushing every time her calf brushes his, sheepishly waves. But Morlug just pulls over a box besides him, and Dixie expands the language lesson to three. 

“I can’t do this,” Morlug complains, after suffering through fifteen failed attempts at _I’m a Ravager, and I spy a fine piece of booty in need of a ravaging_. “I ain’t smart enough for this shit. Isn’t there a simpler version?” Dixie nods and whips out her wristpiece again. She’s guiding Morlug through her alphabet when Isla finally pries open the first bottle of moonshine – technically the second, but Yondu’s not sharing – and the room explodes into cheers. 

“Shut up, shut up!” Isla hisses, holding the frothing bottle away from them. The fizz is an eerie luminescent green. “You want Dagada to find us?” 

Yondu slurps noisily, smacking his lips on his bottle’s rim. “Sorry t'disappoint, but Dagada ain’t leaving the medbay for a while.” The way he says it is just ominous to insinuate. Everyone cheers again, Isla included. 

“It was me who took him out, actually,” Kraglin tries to say. But they’re all too busy pressganging Yondu for details, who lounges back on the crates and smiles mysteriously, his cast-bound foot propped up like a trophy. Kraglin turns to Dixie. “How do I say ‘jackass’?” he asks. 

________________________________________ 

It takes approximately thirty minutes for the lot of them to get to the degree of sloshed where they sit in a cramped circle and share stories. Isla tells a tale about a sweet Morag princess she seduced days before the cataclysm, and Yondu brushes off everyone’s requests for The Story Of The Bilgesnipe and regales them instead with some old adventure that, judging by the groans, they’ve all heard a thousand times before. 

He’s good though. Kraglin can’t remember the details, but he remembers the telling; Yondu’s face a grinning blue skull as he sits over the light panel, his voice rasping low and steady. His fingers tap on the cast, drumming to a low crescendo, and he’s not afraid to pause to his advantage. Kraglin only notices he’s holding his breath when his head starts to throb. When Yondu delivers the climax – something about a crashing through a carnivorous forest to get to his ship with the stolen artifact before the star collapsed in on itself and dragged the entire solar system into a black hole – Kraglin sags like someone’s unstoppered his air valve. 

The others aren’t quite so impressed. “That changes every time you tell it,” Isla accuses, licking spilt moonshine from between her finger-hoops. 

Foot-guy snorts. “Heck, you've changed it so much that I can’t remember how it actually went down. And I was there!” 

Yondu smirks around his next mouthful. “That’s the plan.” 

Kraglin meets Dixie’s eyes. Signs _Jackass_. Makes her sputter from her arrow-holes. 

“So,” says Isla, turning on him. “How’d a nice Nova kid like yourself end up a Ravager?” The question could as easily be turned her way – _Miss Isla Lancia of the Lancia Trading Corporation_ and all. (Hypothetically. Possibly. Maybe one day he’ll gather the gonads to ask; but right now Kraglin’s enjoying himself, and doesn’t fancy being chased around the ship by a pint-sized woman filled with more metal than your average mod-addict.) 

He puts on a scowl. “Hey – for a start, I weren’t never a _nice Nova kid_. Not like the ones you see on adverts, anyways.” Isla holds her hands up in mock-surrender. Kraglin looks around the circle of tipsy faces. They’re all looking. All listening. Isla, Morlug, Dixie, Foot-guy, Figs… Even Yondu, although he’s pretending to fiddle with his wristpiece. Kraglin’s shoulders lift. For the first time, he doesn’t cringe at the thought of being the center of attention – instead, he formulates the memory into coherent chronology, and begins. 

“I was Hraxian, me. Born in the slum. Figured I’d die there too – and I very nearly did…” 

________________________________________ 

“You assassinated the Cartel boss’s trophy wife?” asks Yondu incredulously. He’s been quiet for the most part, while the others have been chipping in opinions and snidely ribbing Kraglin for being dumb enough to set up an auction for a set of fake diamonds with the goddamned Hraxian Cartel, immortalized in legend for forging a passable fucking Infinity Stone. Which – yeah, okay. He deserves. But Yondu’s interruption is unexpected enough that the thread of the story stutters and stops, and Kraglin has to shake his head to clear it. 

“What? No. No! I mean, you can’t assassinate someone by accident.” 

“How’s shooting her in the head 'by accident'?” 

Kraglin splutters. “Well, it ain’t like I expect pre-plasma age crap to actually work! I figured I was just gonna crack her with it, if they didn’t let me escape! I mean, who even keeps that stuff anymore?” Yondu suddenly finds the peeling label on his bottle a subject of intense interest. Kraglin recalls the convenient bullet clips that had been sacrificed to the acid shower, and the stacks of antique weaponry that’d been cleared out of the storage wing to make room for Baby. He gapes. “You ain’t telling me you keep _live_ pre-plasma ammunition on your ship? That’s dangerous!” 

“No more so than holding a pistol up to someone’s head and actin' surprised when it goes off!” Yondu retorts. His sneer sours, and he folds his arms. “Anyway, s'my fucking ship. I do what I want with it.” Including filling it with weird little souvenirs and vintage skrull bazookas. And, judging by the sheer amount of dents, flying it headfirst into walls. Heaven help whatever poor mechanic is assigned to keep it space-worthy. Kraglin rolls his eyes. 

“Well, at least I’ll know what’s digging into my back next time we – uh, ah, lose a bilgesnipe.” 

The others are too drunk to notice the slip. He’s sure. He hopes. At least, most of ‘em are. Morlug’s choking on her drink; it sounds suspiciously like she’s laughing. 

Kraglin figures she deserves everything she gets. “Next!” he announces, leaving the argument over the semantics of Mrs Cartel Boss’s untimely demise for another time. “Hey Morlug – what’s the deal with you and Dagada? He an angry ex, or something?” 

It’s meant to be snide, but Morlug – a surprising happy drunk – laughs so hard that moonshine streams from her nose. “In his dreams,” she gasps. “Asshole tried to get me into bed ‘bout ten times before he started assigning me to scrub-shift instead.” 

Well, that explains… something. Kraglin redefines his already low opinion of Dagada – _tool, prat, unrepentantly officious jerkwad_ – to include 'prick who can’t handle rejection'. “I’m glad I fucked him up so good then,” he says, with feeling. Pauses. “That me and Yondu did.” 

“Thas right,” Yondu mutters. The amount of liquid remaining in his bottle is barely enough to cover its concave bottom, and when he upends it, most sloshes down his jaw. Kraglin, cursed to be watching at that precise moment, sternly warns his mind away from thoughts of licking it up with the memories of a certain failed kiss. And the rest of the Ravagers, of course. Yondu meanwhile shakes the bottle over his open mouth, and licks the rim once the last drops have fallen loose (most of which miss his target completely and splash onto Kraglin). “Alright. Booze’s gone. I’m off to bed.” 

“Don’t break your other leg getting there,” says Isla. Yondu smacks her out of his trajectory with the tip of a crutch, and stands on the third try, hobbling to the door. He almost impales foot-guy on the way. Kraglin observes his stumbling passage, and starts to stand. 

“Uh, should somebody –“ 

“I got it,” says Figs, pushing to her feet and following. She doesn’t look back at Kraglin, and she’s gone before he can protest. The door hisses closed behind her. There’s nothing to do but sit down. Kraglin does so, irritated, although he can’t put his finger on why. 

“She ain’t gonna get much out of him if it’s a fuck she’s after,” Isla shares in a none-too-dulcet tone. “Not after one o’my bottles.” 

There’s a crash from down the corridor, like someone’s swung wildly and punched a wall. Or potentially, bashed a heavy plaster cast into it. “Fuck you too, Isla!” Yondu yells. “You don’t know fuckin’ nothing, and I can fuck whoever I like so don’t ya go talkin’ shit –“ There’s the quick mutter of Figs’ voice. A sullen reply. The scrape of Yondu’s clumsy boot-cast-crutch combo, with an extra pair of feet pattering behind. Silence. 

Kraglin breathes out. Studies his palms, following the swoop of the lines. He ain’t one for hand-reading, but he’s pretty sure his love line’s the one that branches confidently out, only to nosedive around his thumb and crash screaming and burning into the creases of his wrist. 

Two small hands fold over his. Their nails are painted pastel-pink – too delicate a color for this ship. Sure enough, they’re plenty chipped at the edges. But when those hands fold into a spiraling flourish, they’re beautiful nevertheless. He picks out ‘your’, ‘face’, ‘good’ with the comparative, and ‘what’, the circle of the thumb implying a question. 

_You know what would make your face look better?_

He’s too glum to do much else than shake his head. Then the fingers interlock, part, interlock again. 

_My legs wrapped around it._

His ears pink. Dixie smiles. And – well, that’s that. 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin wakes. He pops his spine, leans over to kiss Dixie’s gaping cheek, and stands – forgetting that he’s packed between her and an overhanging tower of dusty carb-cube crates. After digging the ringing out of his ears, he attempts again – slower this time, pulling himself up the crate-mesh and rubbing woefully at his bruised cranium, then starts hunting for his pants. 

That had been… what’s the word he’s looking for? 

Nice. 

That had been nice. 

Kraglin locates a shirt and a skirt, only one of which belongs to him. He drapes the latter over the crate besides Dixie’s head. Then startles as her eyelashes flutter, and he’s treated to a lazy morning smile. Dixie signs, simple alphabet spellings rather than compound – thank fuck, his brain ain’t in a state to decipher much else. It’s slow and clumsy and perfect. 

_Come, you, here._

When Kraglin kneels over her, a little skittish given memories of an arrow coming into close vicinity with his eyeball the last time he’d attempted something of this nature, she grabs his ears and indulges him in a long and stale kiss. Kraglin, mouth equally as fusty from the residue of last night’s binge – not enough to leave him with a full-blown hangover, although bashing his head off those blasted crates hasn’t improved matters – tongues back eagerly and wonders if she’ll be up for another round. He slips his fingers between her legs in a silent question. Dixie gives an appreciative moan, grinding drily up against him but already starting to slicken. Good thing he used a condom, he figures. Wouldn’t want to knock her up. Or give her whatever he might be carrying. 

Or Yondu, for that matter. 

Kraglin pushes that thought away, concentrating on the matter at hand. He’s with Dixie now – not _with_ -with her, like in a relationship or nothing; but heck, if she’s up for it, he could foresee this becoming a regular thing. 

It’s been a while since anything was as simple and pleasant as _nice_ , after all. 

Unfortunately, good things can’t last. The buzzer goes off on Kraglin’s wristpiece. He glances at it – then sees the time and stares. “We slept through first shift?” 

Dixie, shoving him off, goggles aghast at her own watch. Frowns, but doesn’t panic. _Looks so_ , she signs. _No big deal._ Kraglin drops his head into his hands. 

“Well, that’s great. We’re gonna have to work through our downtime now – dang, I skipped inventory shift yesterday as well cause of that thing with the captain, and –“ There’s a message from Figs. Kraglin squints at it in suspicion, then opens it to reveal a neat square of text. “Shit!” 

Dixie, watching his miniature meltdown with amusement, cocks her head. _What_? 

Spying his pants draped from the tallest stack of boxes, Kraglin stands on his tiptoes to reach them. “I’m reassigned – supposed to help ship Baby to the Collector! Damn, why didn’t Yondu comm me…” 

_Maybe still asleep_ , Dixie signs. It’s possible. Kraglin nods at her, mouth tight and troubled, and remembers to do up his fly before stumbling into the dull red glow of the _Eclector_ ’s corridors. His jacket flies out and slaps him on the back of the head. Thankfully, no knives dislodge. Kraglin waves goodbye, one elbow caught in his sleeve, and the door whooshes shut with a gust of salty air. Kraglin sniffs himself. Groans. Moonshine and sex, with a delicate undertone of bilgesnipe-shit – fucking perfect. And no time to contemplate a shower. Hopefully, the Collector wears enough perfume to smother it. Or at least, Yondu smells just as bad. 

Kraglin dashes into the M-ship bay. His long legs carry him through the crush. There’s a maintenance shift on, which is the busiest time of the hangar day cycle; all of the bog standard M-ships have been flipped in their harnesses and lowered to deck level. Ravagers rove their undersides armed with engine diagrams and spindly welding sticks, swarming like termites from a disturbed mound. By the time he makes it to Yondu’s bay he’s panting – not to mention smoldering from where a clumsy recruit had upended a quart of fuel down his jacket. At first he thinks he’s disorientated in the crowd – but no; there’s Dagada’s ship, in the space reserved for first mate. Yondu’s is supposed to be a place behind (no one having dared shift it down to rest with the other untitled crewmens’). 

Only… it’s not. 

There’s the hole, a fissure between Dagada and Isla’s M-ships that gapes like a pulled tooth in a full jaw. But of Yondu, M-ship, or Baby? There’s no sign. 

Kraglin paces for a moment, stumped. He spots the packing crane, rolled to the side of the bay and abandoned until its next use, and sees that it’s been set to haul something heavy, floppy, and approximately the size of a baby bilgesnipe. 

Apparently, Yondu left without him. 

“Hey!” A big hand jostles him under the shadow of Dagada’s M-ship. Kraglin’s batted forwards with an oof, stopping himself from falling to his knees at the last second. “Don’t just stand in the gangway, greenie! You’re blocking the way!” 

Oh. That’s a familiar voice. And Kraglin really ain’t in the mood to be dealing with this right now. 

He straightens. Finds his balance. Then snarls, spittle peppering Lizard-guy’s breast. Lizard-guy stumbles back, hands raised. The welding tool looks ludicrously delicate clasped in his massive blunt claws; the flame that sputters from its tip is as impotent and weak as a penny-candle. “Shit! Shit, okay, shit, whatever…” 

It should feel good. He should be elated, tripping on power. He’s not. 

“Get outta my way,” Kraglin says. Lizard-guy does so. Glancing again at the empty bay, Kraglin shoves his hands in his pockets and slopes into the crowd.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Yondu's got a bit of a chip on his shoulder, doesn't he? _I DO WHAT I WANT, ISLA!!!_**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Ahem. Anyway. Sorry Dixie was introduced so abruptly - she's the girl from the top of Yondu's bunkstack who you don't get to see in chapter... 6? 7? Whatever one it is where Kraglin escapes a snoring Yondu. In case that wasn't clear.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **But yeah. I intended to go back and give her more development, but it didn't happen. As term's coming up, it's not likely to, either! Apologies if she feels rushed.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **I'll (hopefully) get the next chapter up on Sunday, although my schedule may be a bit off as I'm seeing family over the weekend. Fingers crossed!**
> 
> **Please comment! :D**
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****  
> 


	24. Chapter 24

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Morlug tries her hand at counselling, Kraglin is so totally an adult, and Yondu is nowhere to be found.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Have fun determining what's filler and what's foreshadowing. >:D**

“I’m not your counsellor,” says Morlug as Kraglin settles his mop moodily besides hers and swipes dirty water over the patch she’s just cleaned. Kraglin, not concentrating on his handiwork, shrugs. “Seriously. I’m so bad at this shit. You’d be better off talking to Isla.”

“Isla don’t know,” Kraglin replies. Concentrates on painting sticky circles over the grimy red. Morlug pushes air out her nose, grabs him by the elbow, and relocates him so he’s messing the floor in front of her rather than behind. 

“Isla ain’t the most observant in the bunch, but she’s smarter than she lets on. And anyway, why’re you complaining? Ravagers don’t do nothing more than casual – I mean, heck, you banged Dixie, didn’t you?” 

“And it was awesome. But…” Kraglin leans on his brush with a melodramatic sigh. “I dunno. Guess I’m just pissed ‘cause I figured we was gonna handle Baby together. I kinda saved his life back there, and all.” Morlug looks at him. Kraglin pouts. “His leg, at least. Aw heck. What’m I telling you for?” 

“Wish I knew,” says Morlug. Kraglin wrings his mop-head in a tight circle. 

“Fact is, I don’t like this. Ain’t normal for the Collector to buy a basic Bilgesnipe. There’s something else going on, and either Yondu ain’t telling me everything or he’s being duped as well.” 

Morlug snorts. “Day Udonta tells anyone everything, the galaxy implodes.” She catches Kraglin’s look. “What? Goes against the basic laws of nature, that does. Have you met the guy?” 

“He ain’t that bad.” 

“Yeah. And you’re worried because you think this job might go tits-up. Not because he left you behind.” 

The sarcasm bites deep. Kraglin’s got no answer for it. He rests his forehead on the mop, staring past the handle that’s wedged through his field of vision. “You’re really bad at this,” he tells Morlug. She shrugs and keeps scrubbing. 

________________________________________ 

After that, he doesn’t see Yondu for a week. Not that Kraglin’s been counting. Or become mildly obsessed with the worry that Yondu’s avoiding him. 

Because alright, _Eclector_ ’s a big ship. But nowadays he rotates between Bridge shifts, repair shifts, and the occasional scrub around the canteen and central corridors – half his life is spent stalking through the most densely inhabited tunnels and being batted about like a pingpong ball when he gets in folks’ way. Before, Yondu’s always sauntered up casual-as-you-like, crowd parting to let him through, and cancelled his shift so he can drag Kraglin off to accompany him wherever he’s going – whether it’s to the quartermaster because he’s stocking for another solo and needs a hand lugging equipment to his M-ship, or to the ammo decks so he can bitch to someone about how much firepower they’re packing and how little Jora utilizes it. Or just to a random supply closet for a handjob. Going for seven and a half day-cycles with neither hide nor implant of him, while Yondu's not on a mission and is injured too badly to be actively sprinting in the opposite direction whenever Kraglin turns a corner, is odd. 

More than odd. It’s _disquieting_. 

Kraglin’s started to entertain the possibility that Yondu got dissected by the Collector and everybody’s not talking about it – but nope; there’s his M-ship, docked in hangar, shiny new dent from where he’d bounced it off one of the cosmic titan’s teeth and all. When loitering around it yields no more results than making him feel like a stupid teenager (stupid almost-twenty-year-old), Kraglin abandons his efforts and decides Yondu must’ve been gutted by Doc instead, for handling Baby’s sale himself when he knows he’s supposed to be resting his leg for the next month. 

Things are boring, without him. 

Isla stops off to chat whenever she’s not in a rush, and there’s always Morlug – but all in all, Kraglin might as well have been bumped back down to rookie again. He’s not helping himself, either. He politely excuses himself from Dixie’s embrace, when she attempts to tug him in the direction of a conveniently abandoned bog block – wondering if perhaps that has something to do with it, and if Yondu’d been more pissed about him fucking her than he’d let on. That thought’s dismissed immediately. Yondu’d as good as wingmanned him himself. No, it ain’t that. But if he ain’t mad at him for sleeping with someone else, and he ain’t dead… Maybe he’s just busy? 

…Maybe Kraglin should stop thinking about him, before he drills a hole in Dagada’s ship. 

Although the a-hole’d deserve it. After a quick stint swapping between brig and hospital wing, the bastard’s back and crabbier than ever. Jora hasn’t demoted him – yet. But he’s on borrowed time and he knows it – which means he’s also voiding his offended cantankerousness at anyone whom he deems worthy of his ire. Right now, Kraglin’s top of the list. 

“Stop slacking off!” Dagada yells from below. His voice is back. Damn it. Kraglin yanks his multitool from the hole with a little too much vigor, metal bore-chips spitting in his face. He pops off the drill bit and clicks the screwdriver head in. 

“Sir, yes sir.” 

“And sound a bit livelier, would you? You’re making me depressed just watching you.” 

“Sir, yes sir!” 

Kraglin’s holding onto the ridge above Dagada’s cockpit with one hand, feet braced on the curved nose like he’s abseiling. His harness cuts under his arms and over his ribs. The cracked glass panel has been removed – he didn’t ‘accidentally’ fumble and drop it on Dagada’s head, although it had been tempting – and he’s in the process of replacing it with one they’d salvaged from the burnt-out husk of a Horde craft a few days back, sliced and sandpapered to fit. He screws it onto the opening piece from the inside and outside, so that it doesn’t blast off completely when the pilot needs to eject – no sense wasting valuable material. Then it’s a layer of sealant around the rim, and a test of the locking mechanism to ensure that it’ll slot into the sealant-coated notch designed for it, rather than violently depressurizing as soon as Dagada breaches the hangar forcefield. 

What a crying shame that would be. 

Kraglin winches himself to ground-level once the task’s complete, and lours darkly at the wall while Dagada makes a show of going over his work and picking out every tiny flaw. 

“Look at this scratch! Do you want me to be slurped out into the vacuum?” More than he knows. Finally though, it’s over. Dagada assigns him a week of scrub-shifts for his shoddy workmanship, and releases him to his down-cycle with a hissed threat. “Don’t think that you can set your eyes on my girl now that Yondu isn’t fucking you anymore.” 

Kraglin, confused, blinks. “Dixie?” 

Dagada’s scowl is volcanic. “Don’t play fucking coy. I’m talking about Morlug. You stay away from her – she’s not interested in bitches.” 

Oh boy. Kraglin shakes his head. “Pull your head out yer ass. She ain’t interested in anyone – not me, and sure as hell not you.” The sneer on Dagada’s lips spasms. Kraglin presses forwards. “And _you know it_. Leave her the fuck alone.” He squeezes the hand that’s fisted in his collar, tipping his wrist so Dagada can see the tip of the knife-blade, glittering in the shadow of his sleeve. “Leave me the fuck alone too.” 

Dagada pulls himself off. “You don’t know what you’re talking about,” he says. Bares his stinking tombstone teeth. “And I’ll show you all, just you wait. You’re lucky Yondu’s not interested in you any more. I might be tempted to take you out otherwise – kill two birds with one stone.” 

“You’re the one who don’t know what you’re talking about,” Kraglin begins hotly. Then pauses. Reassesses. Starts again. “Yeah, Yondu don’t give two shits about me. And Morlug don’t neither. And you’re fuckin’ delusional and looking for someone to bully. Go find a rookie.” 

He turns, and walks away. The multitool slides in his sweaty grip, and he fantasizes that he’s left the drill bit sticking out of Dagada’s skull. 

_Yondu’s not interested no more_. Of course. There’s always that. 

________________________________________ 

“You’re pathetic,” Morlug informs him, before dropping him at the Bridge door to start his next shift. Kraglin’s inclined to agree. 

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me,” he admits. But Isla emerges and hooks him by belt he’s begun wearing threaded through his high collar before he can get more out of Morlug than a wry: “Want the list?” 

Life on the Bridge is removed from the clamor and flurry of the corridors. It’s busy, sure; but locked in his spieling cocoon of constellation charts, Kraglin’s cut off from the chatter. Not cut off from thoughts of a certain blue jackass, whose post by Jora’s side is conspicuously vacated. But not even Kraglin’s a good enough multitasker to fret over Yondu when he’s twisting them through a gauntlet of floating space debris, so he sucks it up and – for the moment – forgets about him. 

After his initial fuck up on the nav equipment, he’s progressed quickly. Isla’s got an eye for aptitude, and under her brisk tutelage he’s gone from wobbling them out of the way of oncoming stars to plotting their course lightyears in advance. It’s not challenging work, not physically. But Kraglin enjoys the mental flex. Calculating the orbits of the ever-animated cosmos requires a fair amount of maths; the computer takes care of the algorithms and the more complex algebraic equations he never got taught, but he’s left with the basic logical legwork. Luckily, Kraglin’s always been quick at snap calculations – haggling your way through the Hraxian underworld gives you a sixth sense for when the numbers don’t quite add up. And he’s got a good enough survival instinct to know not to sacrifice safety for speed (to Isla’s constant aggravation). 

The manual part of navving is taking a bit more time to get used to. These controls crop up whenever something goes awry – undocumented Kree outpost, surprise meteorite, whatever throws the pre-configured nav plan off. Kraglin’s at it again today, as they dodge the Ravager fleet through a new asteroid belt, left in the wake of a moon-sized colony that had crashed into its orbital planet. 

_Eclector_ takes lead. Thankfully, no one on the Bridge looks up from their posts to gawk as Isla thumps his shoulder and he steps up to the nav platform – they’ve got their own jobs to do, manning communications between the flagship and the Ravagers’ smaller long-distance space transports, sending out probe-scans on the frequencies of every known Empire and liable Scavenger threat. Who knows what could be waiting for them, in this silent minefield of dead rock? 

Whatever’s out there, it’s Kraglin’s job to guide them through. He feels the pressure of their unspoken expectation, weighing in the pit of his stomach. He can do this, though. He knows it. 

And he does. 

There’s something unspeakably nerve racking about twisting your hand in a star chart and having the actual engines respond beneath your feet, in the now rather than a few weeks later. But once you’re over that initial _holy fuck I’m piloting a million tons of steel and Ravager,_ it’s kinda fun. _Eclector_ ’s no spring chicken but she turns on a fucking needlepoint, and her bulky hull noses between what meteors it can with the grace of a blue whale. What ones it can’t, shudder soundlessly off her forceshields. Kraglin watches them spin past: mighty clumps of earth and twisted chrome, each larger than two M-ships wedged back-to-back, which are granulated to powder and whipped by the force of their engines to smatter on the shields of the frigates behind. 

His four hours pass in tense silence. Even Isla is cowed by the scale of the devastation. What remains of the satellite civilization has been scoured and twisted beyond recognition as the impact welded metal to clay, glass to burnished rock. All that’s left of the space station and the planet is their thousand hybrid offspring, natural and artificial mashed together in haphazard abstract sculptures. It’s brutal and beautiful. A derelict exploded diagram of matter. Kraglin’s pulse hammers in his ears as he glides them across the field, then out into open space beyond. 

Isla’s the one to break the silence. “They’re waitin’ on us,” she says, thumbing at the hovering fleet. Kraglin nods. Shuts his eyes. Opens them again, and engages the _Eclector_ ’s lightspeed drive. The fractured planet shrinks to an atom speck, and they’re sucked into oblivion. 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin exits the Bridge on shaking ankles and takes a minute to refamiliarize himself with the solidity of the walls. His mind’s been left behind, swallowed by the aether. Space’s gargantuan magnitude is sucking on his toes, compelling him to… He doesn’t know what. To jump? To what? To where? 

All he knows is that he’s never going to feel this determined again. 

He’s got his free hour before the night cycle starts, and he’s not going to spend it floating around the _Eclector_ ’s labyrinth like a ship left unmagnetized to dock. No. Kraglin’s going to be proactive. Productive. He’s going to hunt Yondu down, and he’s going to get the explanation that he goddamn well deserves. And for once, he knows exactly where he’ll be. 

Their day and night cycles are close to coincided – Yondu starts earlier, Kraglin finishes later, but only by an hour each way. So when Kraglin creaks across the grilling in the D-block dorm, locates the third bunk stack in from the door, and toes off his boots so he can swarm the ladder without bringing the wrath of foot-guy and Figs down upon him, he’s expecting to be met with a bed full of snoring blue Centaurian. 

What he finds is… well, it’s snoring, but it’s neither blue, nor a Centaurian. 

Kraglin blinks at the rookie girl with the jacket freshly stripped of all its individualizing paraphanalia. Then peeks into the bunk overhead to find another rookie – Varra’s replacement – and Dixie above him. Nope. Definitely the right stack. Just… no Yondu. Where is he? Is he sleeping in his M-ship again? He’ll just be cranky if he wakes up with a crik in his neck, and – y’know, even if he is in his ship, why’ve they put a rookie in his bunk? 

Kraglin’s musings are cut off as a scaly hand closes over his socked foot. He stifles the squeak, and manages to save himself from falling face-first onto Dixie’s crotch – not that she’d mind much, after last time. He schools his features, and looks down on a familiar froth of upside-down jellyfish hair, glowing luminescent around a frilled green chin. 

“Outside,” says Figs grimly. “You and me. We need to talk.” 

________________________________________ 

The talk goes something like this. 

“Stay the fuck away from here, Rookie. Next time I catch you lurkin', I’ll eject you from the nearest airlock.” And Figs turns and shuffles towards her bunk. Kraglin catches her arm. 

“Hey, you can’t leave me with that! And my name’s _Kraglin_ , okay? I got one now; least ya could do is use it.” 

Figs assesses the hand on her shoulder. Her chin frills flutter, undulations of dry green scales that start from the middle fold and ripple outwards. Kraglin hasn’t met many skulls, but he’s sure that's not a happy sign. He doesn’t let go of her though, tightening his grip and narrowing his own glare to match. He’s had enough of backing down. He’s getting his answers. Now. 

“Tell me what’s going on,” he says. “Tell me where Yondu is, and I’ll leave you alone. I swear.” 

Figs wrenches her shoulder away. “Yondu ain’t here.” 

“I can see that. But why’s there another chick in his bed? Did he do something?” Kraglin’s throat clams up. “Has Jora brigged him? I mean, he was kinda rude to her, but I figured he was always like that and she was used to it… Shit, is he okay? He shouldn’t be doing much with his leg all broke an’ all, and if Dagada’s got him in the brig…” 

Figs slaps his hand off when he makes to reach for her again. “He ain’t in the brig. Fuck off.” 

That’s a relief, at least. Kraglin’s fingers curl, retreating before they can latch onto Figs collar. She doesn’t make to walk away though, and neither does he. 

“Where is he, then?” he asks. Figs’ mouth is tighter than a fresh scar. 

“Dorm Block L, Bunk something-or-other,” she says. Kraglin frowns. So Yondu’s switched dorms? Okay, that explains the bed, but not the general lack of him during his day shift. 

His day shift. 

Kraglin, hit with a wave of premonition, opens his map and scrolls until he’s located the block. It’s the one right next to the canteen, which is bustling at all hours – anyone who’s assigned there is going to be one grouchy fucker unless they’ve stolen any noise cancellation sets recently. It’s also the dorm block that operates on the other end of the cycle shift to his. While he’s going to sleep, Yondu’s waking up. He spends the last two of Kraglin’s down-hours and one-and-a-half shifts before it deep in night-cycle, and then sets about on his own day. There’s still eight hours of crossover in Kraglin’s morning, when Yondu’s getting to the end of his shifts – but the Bridge is Yondu’s first placement of the day, and Kraglin’s last. 

Folks don’t swap shift often. Ravagers don’t have the patience to iron out disputes – usually, if you gotta beef with someone, you punch it out between you or you suck it up and deal with it. You don’t just… avoid them. Changing shift is as big a snub as it gets. If Kraglin was anything less than the mature and savvy space pirate he is, he might be a little offended. Because while all of the crew are a team, in theory, your shift-mates are the ones you work with day-in, day-out. They watch your back as you watch theirs. The work’s tough enough that there’s no real time for slacking and chatting, and most Ravagers have their own posses who they abide by shift-in, shift-out; but griping over your supervisors together makes for many firm acquaintances, if not friends. 

Kraglin knows though, that those he nods at in the corridors are only a fraction of the Ravagers on board. And the crew of the _Eclector_ ’s a fragment of the total Ravager fleet. Heck, if he’d been assigned anywhere else, to any other ship or shift – he’d never have met Yondu at all. 

Apparently, Yondu’s trying to rectify that. 

“Did he request it?” he asks Figs, keeping his voice level. Her poker face is exquisite. When she looks him up and down, he senses something in her eyes – something cold and hard, resolved not to pity him. 

“Yeah,” she says. “I guess ya could say that.” Kraglin’s expecting the answer, but it still smacks like an arrow to the chest. Figs sighs. “And rookie?” She’s leaning on the wall outside the doors, eyes trained on the crusty vents of the tunnel wall opposite. Every time a Ravager breaks her view she has to refocus them, lids clicking dryly over her dark green irises. “It’s for the best. Leave it be.” 

Perhaps he should listen to her. Perhaps he should fade back into drudge work and nav training, teasing Isla and irritating Morlug; pretend that he’d never met Yondu and move on with his life. Perhaps he should jump ship at the next landfall, and get to work on that retirement bungalow. 

_You ain’t going nowhere, kid. And if you do, I’ll come after you and finish the job._

No. He can’t do that. Kraglin squeezes his fists. Forces himself to remain calm. 

“I don’t understand,” he says, starting slow. “There’s something goin' on here, Figs. I can tell. Just – just tell me straight –“ 

But what little emotion Figs has shown has closed itself off, drowned under stiffened green scales. “I’ve told ya all you need to know. Yondu don’t wanna see you no more. Don’t go looking for him. And don’t come talking to me neither, if you know what’s good for you.” 

Kraglin’s mouth opens and shuts. “What about Baby?” he asks weakly. “Did he get Baby – uh, I mean, the bilgesnipe – back safely?” He’s seen the M-ship. But he still wants to know. That was the last proper job he worked with Yondu; he needs to hear it’s gone off without a hitch. Closure, or something. Although – hell, Kraglin’s trying to be grown-up about this and all; respect Yondu’s choices and such. But right now he doesn’t want closure. Right now he wants to barge into L-block, grab Udonta by his stupid blue head and shake him until he explains what the fuck this is all about. Throwing a tantrum isn’t any more likely to get Figs to open up, however – and right now, she’s the only link he has. Kraglin stares at her beseechingly. “Please?” he begs. “Tell me how the job went?” 

Figs considers him. Her arms are crossed over her flat chest and her hair is wilder than ever, a lightning-bolt puff of crackling white. Kraglin knows she’s weighing up telling him to shove off, just to be done with him. He adjusts his stance to a stubborn mirror. 

“Good,” she says, eventually. “It went good. Although he oughta have taken you, by my reckoning.” 

Kraglin remembers that she’d commed him that morning. “Thanks, I guess. For trying. I appreciate it.” The look Figs shoots him is… well, confused would be putting it mildly. “What?” 

“You’re _thanking_ me?” she asks. Her eyes are bewildered but her mouth’s a hostile twist; a strange conflation that puts Kraglin on edge and has him checking his back pocket for a knife. 

“Uh, yeah? I mean, you commed when I was asleep, but it mighta worked otherwise –“ 

Figs laughs. It’s not a pretty sound. “You _wanted_ to go with him? Fuck, rookie. You really do got a deathwish, don’t you!” 

Okay, now he’s the bemused one. “I… guess? I mean, I’ve heard of the Collector but I ain’t never met him before. And I wanted to, y’know, make sure he had a large enough cage for the bilgesnipe and stuff – Baby’s a big girl, but she’s still growing, and I think she’d like space to play…” He trails off. “What d’you mean a deathwish?” 

Figs’ smile is barren. “He told you that he was commissioned by the Collector. To deliver a bilgesnipe.” 

Okay. There’s definitely something else going on here. Kraglin swallows. “Yeah.” 

“A basic, non-genetically modified, pure-blooded, bog-standard bilgesnipe.” 

It’s what’s been bothering him. Kraglin stoops towards her in anticipation, eyes wide. “Yeah!” 

There’s a long silence. Then Figs scoffs, claps him on the back, and makes for her bunks. Kraglin stumbles after her, calling out – “Hey, wait! What d’you mean? If it weren’t the Collector, who was it?” 

“Work it out!” The dorm door slams, a thrown boot bouncing off it from the other side, echoed by a muffled ‘fuck off’. Kraglin, marooned in the hallway with Ravagers sidestepping to his front and back, stutters dumbly at the door, and rolls her parting words over in his head until a burly Kree elbows him in the gut and tells him in no-nonsense terms to step to the side or get walking. He walks. Mind in a daze. 

_Work it out._

_Work it out._

What are bilgesnipe used for? Illegal animal baiting, exotic pet trade, narcotics and medicine. 

Who specializes in all of those? 

Kraglin’s palms clam up. He knows. Of course he fucking knows. He’d worked for them… For how long, before his attempt to rob them blind with a forged Flengoffan diamond necklace had gone horribly awry? Heck, since he’d first crawled out the gutter! The goddamn Hraxian Cartel. Who have a bounty on him about as pricey as the tag sprayed on Baby’s back. 

But… why? Why had Yondu lied? Why even bother with the fabrication about the Collector in the first place – unless he wanted to keep Kraglin in the dark, lure him in, parcel him and Baby up together and deliver them both in exchange for his precious credits…? 

For a moment, Kraglin is filled with a pain so wrenching that the only way he can extinguish it is with an equally festering rage. 

Fuck that Jackass. Had it all been… what, a trick? A plan to – to what? Get him close, get him trusting, sell him for profit? But fuck with him a bit first, just to make it that bit harder to bear? He wants to say Yondu wouldn’t be that cruel. But he’s gotta admit – after today, he ain’t sure he can say anything accurate about Yondu, not anymore. 

_Keep walking_ , he tells himself, as he stomps past L-block dorms. The queues straggling out of the canteen breach and reform around him, Ravagers shuffling out of his way. _Keep walking, and don’t look back._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks so much for all the amazing comments! I really appreciate them - so, uh, keep them coming? ;3**


	25. Chapter 25

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin has a birthday, Isla has an M-ship, and Morlug has a lot of regrets about ever suggesting this.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **This is just a lil' quickie that sort-of tacks onto the end of the last chapter! The chapter you're all waiting for will be out tomorrow. ;)**

And so it goes.

Kraglin rolls out of his bunk in the morning, drags his carcass to stoop shivering beneath an icy showerhead, heaves on his jacket and pants and heads to the M-ship bay with his head down, refusing to scan the corridors for any hint of blue. If he does pass Yondu, he’s too busy scowling at his bootlaces to notice. That’s okay. They’re worth more to him, anyway. 

Morlug, by the frequency of her glances, notices his mood as she trails after him on their maintenance shift, but she doesn’t comment on it. Isla does, extensively and to great length; but it’s all teasing and ribbing and general mockery, and asking Kraglin if Dixie’s got him preggers or something, what with all these moodswings. 

Dixie… Kraglin’s been staying away from Dixie. If he sees her, he’ll only snap, and she doesn’t deserve that. As for Figs, he’s staying away from her too – for both of their sakes. 

This is what they wanted, right? Her and Udonta? He hopes they’re loving every Kraglin-free second. 

Kraglin furiously digs his screwdriver into the circuitboard in front of his nose, and receives a hearty zap for his troubles. “Ow! Fuck.” 

On the top rung of the stepladder, her own screwdriver wedged in the ajar sliver of doorway that they’ve coaxed the botched locking mechanism into releasing, Morlug huffs and yanks until her biceps bulge. The door shifts a millimetre. “You look like a scared porcupig,” she informs Kraglin. Kraglin rakes his fingers through his shock-spiked Mohawk, and sneers. 

“Dagada’s the one who stole my hair gel.” Because he caught him smuggling anesthetics for Yondu. So technically, this is Yondu’s fault too. 

Kraglin locates the live connection and, after binding insulator tape around his screwdriver and up his wrists, gives in to frustration and rips. Sparks pop like miniature firecrackers. Hot needles mottle the underside of his chin. Kraglin sets his jaw, yanking… When the wires give, he’s deposited heavily onto his backside, spitting copper threads still clenched in his grip. The door thunks closed, what little progress they’d made lost. Kraglin flings his bundle at the wall. 

“Grah!” 

Morlug observes him placidly. “Y’know we’re supposed to be fixing this door, not making it inoperable?” 

Kraglin wishes it had clamped shut on her fingers. Then regrets it. If Dixie doesn’t deserve his anger, neither does Morlug – nor does she deserve his futile attempt at stress-relief-via-vandalism, which’ll come back to bite her when Dagada checks over her work. Aw hell. He scrubs his eyes on his sleeve, which are prickly, for some reason. Morlug ain’t never lied to him. Or tricked him. Or tried to sell him for cash. Why couldn’t he have fallen in love with her? 

…Where the heck did that thought come from? 

Kraglin can’t be bothered to cultivate a suitably coherent argument of denial. The idea of love ever applying to him – to him and Yondu fucking Udonta, greatest jackass to sail the aether – is bizarre to the point of nonsensical. Not even worthy of contemplation. 

His mouth, formulating a spitting reply, slowly shuts. He stands, retrieves his screwdriver from the spaghetti-mess of copper entrails he’s torn from the pressure panel, and fishes out a reel from his utility belt, snipping off new wire lengths and clipping them in place of those he destroyed in silent apology. The step ladder vibrates over the grilling. Morlug’s boots thunk down. A hand hovers indecisive over his shoulder, then gives it a firm squeeze. Kraglin concentrates on the panel, two twists for each wire, overlaying the fritzed center of the circuitbox, as Morlug clears her throat. 

“Ain’t it your birthday soon, Krags? Wanna do something?” 

It’s a ploy; an obvious one at that. And it’s exactly what Kraglin needs. He sandwiches flat against the door, squinting sideways into the box so he can see the wire he’s picking at under the thatch of others, and answers out of the corner of his mouth – “What like?” 

Morlug shrugs. “Aw, y’know, the usual. Booze. Party. We could take Isla’s M-ship – ain’t like she ever uses it anyway…” 

That’s an idea. Kraglin almost undoes all his reparation-work, he pulls the screwdriver out so quickly. “Could I fly?” he asks, spinning on her in sudden eagerness. “Fly the M-ship? Think Isla’d let me?” Morlug mulls it over, then shrugs again. 

“Don’t see why not. I mean, heck. You can’t be no worse than…” 

She might as well have ripped the wires out of him too. Catching her mistake, Morlug shuts the sentence off, and Kraglin, expression shuttering, returns silent to his panel. Morlug worries the loose stitching capping her turned-up sleeves between long pink fingers. “Why don’t I comm her now?” she says, backing away. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll comm her now.” 

________________________________________ 

Dagada’s on duty in the hangar, which means there’s no way they’re going to get exit permission without Morlug dropping to her knees and proposing right there and then. (When Isla suggests it, she receives a mutinous scowl and a threat to solder her cockpit on backwards next time she ejects.) It takes a suitable commotion to divert his attention – a fire faucet in the hangar over, which springs a torrential leak not moments after Kraglin’s first maintenance shift finishes. Seems some a-hole’s nicked half the washers and hidden them in the scrub closet. Incredible coincidence, really. 

It’s worth the risk of discovery. Dagada’s ruthless and determined – but while he’s competent when it comes to dishing out discipline, he tends to jump on the nearest conclusion like it’s a downhill bandwagon and go rattling off on it before scouting for other potential culprits. The rookie who’d been assigned that job – the one Isla had sent on an errand to the quartermaster, to pick up a nice fat tub of elbow grease – will no doubt be facing a mouthful of slimy square teeth and a trip to the whipping post when he returns. 

Poor guy. But he ain’t named yet, so he’s expendable. 

Kraglin smothers any vestiges of guilt as he settles into the pilot’s seat. He’d survived worse, after all. 

An M-ship is a bulbous triangle of thrusters and sleek glass. It’s meant to be smooth and streamlined, able to punch into an atmosphere with the same ease with which it slides through space. Isla’s fits the bill. The design’s surprisingly humdrum – Kraglin doesn’t know what he was expecting: fringed tassles like the ones pinned around her sleeves, or possibly an array of jangling variegated hoops and studs. But Isla’s M-ship is as basic as they come. Orange paint smeared around the canopy-hood in a sharp edged V and blue stripes on the wings, each of which branches into three jagged flaps at the tip. The air under the vents wobbles as Kraglin edges the ship out of its harness at the far end of the docking bay. 

“Easy,” Isla murmurs. The hand on his shoulder is tensed, knuckles bulging at the dark pierced skin. “Easy now.” 

He rotates the joystick, and laughs breathily as the M-ship spins on her axis like a flicked penny, hot air blasting the hangar behind. Ahead, the forcefield glimmers: a slender spool of satin pulled taut over the empty abyss. 

Isla’s fingers squeeze. "Go,” she says. 

Kraglin ought to take this slow – it’s his first time, and the blackness of space has always been an unconquerable well of nothingness that lodges blind terror in his gut. But right now, that stomach-wrenching intensity is what he’s striving for. Kraglin’s doing this to forget. Buoyed on by the weight of the past couple of days, of Fig’s confession and Yondu’s betrayal, Kraglin doesn’t pause to consider before slamming his foot down and catapulting them into the void. 

The forcefield smears gold ribbons across his vision. It takes several blinks for them to disappear, and by then, the three of them are encapsulated in silence. There’s no roar of engines. No rapid combustion pound as the engines strain. When he cuts them out they continue on the same trajectory, at the same speed, a silent bullet slicing the vacuum. It takes a tilt of the joystick to swivel the rockets on the M-ship’s underside so that they blast forwards as well as back. Kraglin overcompensates; rather than bringing them to a gentle halt they’re sent juddering rearwards. 

Morlug, lashed to the copilot’s seat, holds her belt and looks nauseous. Isla, having rejected the suggestion to sit, does a clumsy rolypoly and lands on her stomach with an ‘oof’. She’s immediately up again and laughing with it, ruffling Kraglin’s hair until her pierced fingers yank on the strands. 

Ow. It’s not like Isla to plead for a calmer ride, but what with all his recent pussy-footing around a gang of tempestuous space pirates, Kraglin’s used to reading hints. 

He balances forwards and back thrust until they’re stable. Then cuts completely and lets them hover outside the pull of the galleon’s gravity, before wincingly assessing the state of his Mohawk. It’ll survive. He thinks. His scalp isn’t so sure. 

“Fun?” Isla asks, pushing her own brown ringlets out of her eyes. Kraglin lets his grin answer for him, and Isla gives his shoulder a firm clap. “Alright, whizz-kid. Let’s see you do some barrel rolls. Then I’ll be impressed.” 

________________________________________ 

An hour later, his passengers are thoroughly nauseated and Kraglin’s the most elated he’s been since he survived his first month. 

“Yee-haw!” he screams as he wheels the M-ship through a cloud of dust and asteroids, flipping her back and forth around the larger chunks as if she’s being batted from side to side by a celestial ping-pong bat. 

“Y’know, if you flew in a straight line, you wouldn’t have to do all this bouncing,” Isla tells him. Then hurks and scrabbles for the nearest waste receptacle. Kraglin shuts his eyes a blissful moment. Opens them to Morlug’s nervous squeak and an oncoming meteor the size of a shuttle. Pulls back on his ignition and angles their nose forwards, pushing them into a seamless front-flip that carries them over the rock and down the other side, Isla clinging to the dashboard so she doesn’t roll across the ceiling. 

Oh yeah. He’s awesome. 

________________________________________ 

“I’m awesome,” Kraglin sings as they re-enter the hangar. He pops the cockpit and swarms over the M-ship’s nose, rather than trekking through the main body to access the ladder. Straddling the lip, he drops a kiss on its rounded hull – then regrets it as he tastes space-grime and cosmic ash. “Blegh.” 

“You,” says Isla, from under the pile of space-suits she’d been buried beneath, “are the worst pilot I’ve ever have the misfortune to fly with.” 

Kraglin brushes her off. “Critics.” 

“I’m serious. Ugh.” Her head appears, swaying dangerously. When she rubs her chin on her sleeve she brings away sour saliva and the remains of Shorro’s lunch. “Just because ya _can_ do all that fancy flippy stuff don’t mean ya _should_. 'Specially if there’s a clear path through all the debris. Sorta shenanigans’ll get you caught when you got Nova on your tail.” 

“Where’s your sense of adventure?” 

“I lost it with my lunch,” Isla deadpans. But she quits griping long enough to give him a quick squeeze after she’s wobbled her way down the ramp. Her stout little body slots around him, chin digging into his stomach, and she treats his ass to a hearty slap. “Happy fuckin' birthday.” 

Kraglin has to lean to return the hug. “Thanks.” He’s allowed a generous two seconds before Isla wriggles out of the embrace with a cough. Heaven forbid Ravagers be caught _cuddling._

Morlug appears, edging down the ramp on knocking knees. Her face is an interesting shade of green-purple, and when Kraglin goes to hug her too she wards him off with a grimace and a warning hand pressed against her mouth. Right. Best not to risk it. He’d only have to sponge up the mess next scrub shift – Isla’s already informed him that he can empty all her vomit-filled bins in his own spare time. But for now, Kraglin can’t bring himself to care. The prospect of immersing himself elbow-deep in Isla’s chunky stomach contents hardly registers; Kraglin’s walking on air, ankles replaced with springs. Today, space isn’t horrifying. Terrible, awe-inspiring, yes. But Kraglin’s spun out into its dark recesses, and he’s returned safely home. 

_Home._

What an odd thought that is. 

Above, Isla’s M-ship is winched away from the flight deck and deposited into its suspension-harness. Kraglin cups his hand over his eyes, squinting into the bright dock-lights as it’s dragged away. It settles in its customary position – one down from Yondu, three away from the captain’s prime spot. Resting besides that pitted spacewreck it looks brand new; positively shiny. The wealth of gubbins accumulated from spiraling through the asteroid field pales into insignificance when compared with Yondu’s lavish coating of dents, which reflect the light from a thousand different angles like the facets on a Flengoffan jewel. 

But Kraglin’s not thinking about that. Kraglin’s not thinking about Yondu period – because hell, why should he? He’s just had the time of his fucking life. He’s twenty years old. Tonight he’s going to get piss-drunk, learn the sign language for _if gravity didn’t exist I’d still fall for you_ , and fuck Dixie like she’s the last woman in the galaxy. He’s got his friends. He doesn’t need some blue skinned jackass to make his life interesting. And y’know what? He doesn’t want him either. 

Kraglin turns his back on the M-ships with a victorious smile. He’s never going to lay eyes on Yondu Udonta, not ever again. And that thought doesn’t hurt. 

Not one bit.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thanks for all the amazing comments! Keep making my day, you lovely people.**


	26. Chapter 26

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **ARC III**
> 
> **In which there is an accident, a confrontation, and a very conveniently located closet.**

Only he does see Yondu again. And when he does, it’s a complete accident.

A terrible accident, in fact. Or at least, natural causes. Nobody’s fault – that’s what everyone’s saying. 

Kraglin doesn’t buy it for a second. Neither, judging from how he’s champing his jaw – the only tell on an otherwise emotionless face – does Yondu. Kraglin falls in quietly besides him, all past sins if not forgotten then at least pushed to one side. “Who did it?” he asks out of the corner of his mouth. Yondu doesn’t look at him. 

“Who d’you think?” 

Of course. Yondu’d only had two days left before the promised fortnight was up. Two days before Jora promoted him back to first mate. There’s no way Dagada couldn’t have known. 

Yondu exits the medbay at a brisk limp. Kraglin remains a while longer, gazing at the pallid yellow body on the gurney and wondering what he's feeling. Ravager captains don’t often get the opportunity to die old and peaceful in their beds. By all accounts, that’s what Jora had done. But Doc’s burnt the chemical read-outs from the autopsy, and Jora’s hipflask is missing from the inventory of items that the quartermaster had made. And when Shorro tiptoes in and inquires as to the meat situation, Doc balks and flaps him away with some lame excuse about _proper send-offs._

Yeah right. Like ‘respect’ would keep Ravagers from good meat, even if it’s tough and gnarly and ancient as the stars. 

Kraglin ought to feel _something_. Gladness. Sorrow. But all he can summon is a numb curiosity as he blinks down at Jora’s wizened cadaver, shrunken in death to that of a brittle Xandarian grandma, and wonders where all that fierceness and formidability has gone. Is it dissolved in the air he breathes? Floating formless through the abyss, adrift, left behind by the steady onward grind of her galleon’s engines? 

There’s a buzz from his wristpiece. Bridge shift. Time to head. His boot soles are gummed to the floor from standing still too long; the medbay is always dubiously sticky, no matter how often it’s scrubbed, and Kraglin has to coax them off one grip at a time before walking out. Isla’ll be waiting for him, and the first mate – the captain – will be too. There’ll be more nav-training, more jabs to the leg nerve and cheerful banter. 

Captain dies? Long lives the captain. Ravager life continues as normal, and when you’re on rationed water, no one’s got tears to spare for the dead. 

Yondu should be heading to his night shift now. Kraglin doubts he’ll be going. In fact… Kraglin squints. Isn’t that him up ahead? Hobbling towards the Bridge? The Bridge where Dagada’s accustoming the shape of his ass to Jora’s still-warm chair? 

He picks up his pace. Catches Yondu by a forearm, destabilizing the crutch. “Uh, hey. Where you goin'?” 

Yondu’s eyes are always red. Today, they’re redder than usual. “You’re asking a lot of stupid questions, rookie,” he says, staring straight ahead. He resets the crutch and keeps walking. The curve of his elbow over the padded armpit rest is solid as steel. Kraglin tugs as hard as he can, but is dragged along seemingly without effort, a buoy that’s bashed into every other Ravager along the way. 

The Bridge is up two levels and across a corridor. If he reaches the lift, Kraglin’ll lose his hold and Yondu’ll be away. And then… And then, who knows? Who knows what Yondu will do, or what’ll be done in retaliation? Who knows why Kraglin even cares? 

Except somehow, he does. 

He digs his fingers in, pinching to win a pause. Then flounders for what to say. Tell Yondu not to go after Dagada, that it’s a fucking stupid suicide mission and that if he kills him in cold blood in front of the entire Bridge crew they’ll deem him too unstable to be captain and shunt him off at the next Nova port to collect on his bounty? He’ll only make him more determined. “I think we oughta talk,” he settles for. Yondu’s eyes swivel to him, long enough to deliver a malignant sneer. 

“Do we now.” 

He drops one crutch – it clatters like a war drum. Then opens his trenchcoat. 

The milling Ravagers scatter for the surrounding tunnels. Kraglin blanches at the sharp crimson glimmer of an arrow tip. Shit. Yondu really is pissed. 

He forces his voice to remain steady. “Yes. About – about, uh, why you was gonna sell me to the Cartel!” It’s the only thing he can think of – and, to be honest, he genuinely does want to know. When he continues, the offence in his tone isn’t entirely feigned. “Cause heck. C’mon. I figured you was a jackass, but that’s just mean. Making me like you and all. Why’d you mess with me, if all I am to you is… what? Another bounty?” 

Yondu’s eyebrows pull together. He almost looks as if he’s struggling for words – but then a decision’s made, and he wrenches away from Kraglin, turning his back. “I don’t gotta explain nothing to you,” he says. His broad shoulders are stiff and unyielding, and he leans heavily on his crutch as he walks. Kraglin, irritation rising, scoffs and pads after him. He halts in the mouth of the Bridgebound passage Yondu’s about to turn into – 

“Look, if you didn’t wanna fuck me, you could’ve just said.” 

Yondu growls. “That ain’t got nothing to do with it.” He steps around him, aiming for the next corridor. Oh no. He's not escaping that easily. Kraglin’s faster than him now he’s on one crutch; he darts round and blocks him again, swinging under his arm when it makes to deliver a smack. He’s met with a serrated yellow snarl. “I can’t be seen talkin' with you no more, so back off!” 

That’s… not what he was expecting. Kraglin frowns. “Uh, what d’you mean, you can’t be seen –“ 

Apparently, Yondu’s more on edge than he’s letting on. He whistles. 

Fuck. 

Kraglin bows backwards, barely keeping his balance. The arrow darts an inch closer and his legs give out, depositing him hard on his ass. 

“Let’s get this straight,” says Yondu from the other side of the corridor. “You an' me? We didn’t have nothing going on between us. But even if we did, it’s sure as hell over now.” It’s a struggle to ignore the radiation burn drying out his pupils, to look past the arrow and see Yondu standing behind it. But when Kraglin manages, he sees an expression that doesn’t quite match the harsh words. 

“Something happened, didn’t it?” he says. “Someone saw something, said something… Was it Daga –“ He chokes and thumps his head back. The arrow jabs the tender skin under his adam’s apple. Red fire blisters when it bobs. It’s like Chinese water torture, only instead of water it’s hot oil, and instead of a drip it’s a twizzling knife-point. 

Yondu steps further away, whistling again to lock the arrow in place. “I wish it'd been Dagada,” he grits out. From the metallic screech, his teeth are clamped hard enough to crack the few that aren’t already broken or gold-capped. “It woulda been a fucking pleasure to have it come from Dagada.” 

So that removes one suspect. Kraglin, having suffered borderline extermination at Yondu’s arrowpoint so often that he can think clearly while having a puncture slowly screwed into his neck, starts sifting his memory for the rest. Who else knows? Morlug? He hasn’t pissed her off lately, not enough to warrant this in punishment. Isla and Jora? They’d suspected, he’s fairly certain; but one knows what gossip to keep to herself, and the other’s currently stripped and cold on a mortician’s slab, awaiting airlock-ejection. So that leaves… 

“Figs,” Kraglin croaks. Remembers how she’d guided Yondu home after the moonshine-fest. How she’d as good as shoved Kraglin out the way. Remembers Varra, and kukris, and stinking wheelie bins piled with drippy raw flesh. A drunken mistake on some blue-lit supergiant satellite that’s apparently going to haunt him for the rest of his life. 

The arrow’s too close for him to speak now – if he pushes his head any further, he’ll be burrowing through the floor-slabs. Kraglin cranes over his nose to look at Yondu instead, and finds a sullen stare. 

After a brief meditation – it may take mere seconds, but sure feels like hours when you’re potentially developing throat-cancer – Yondu whistles again. The arrow, rather than impaling Kraglin’s trachea, whips off and scouts the surrounding corridors for eavesdroppers. There’s a few yelps and a shriek. Anyone still in the area makes themselves scarce. It returns, parallel-parking neatly in Yondu’s holster, and he tucks the trenchcoat over it. Stands for a moment, towering above Kraglin despite the floorspace between them. Then he exhales and feels for the wall, sliding down it and scooting out his crutch in jarring increments, until his bandaged leg rests adjacent to Kraglin’s. 

“Ain’t nothing personal,” he starts. Kraglin pushes onto his elbows, wobbling a bit from side to side. He probes his aching throat for windholes before speaking again. 

“Sure feels it.” 

“Shut up. Anyway – look, there’s stuff… Stuff I’m involved in.” Yondu waves an inarticulate hand. The other’s rubbing his toecap, as if he's resisting the urge to pick at his cast. “Stuff that’s more important than you. To me.” He almost sounds convinced, too. Kraglin swallows. It’s like deep-throating a cactus. 

“What – like gathering support for the captaincy?” He knows he’s hit jackpot when Yondu’s nails scratch the worn leather of his boot. He’s looking at Kraglin, direct and earnest – but it’s too blunt, too forced. Like he’s making himself meet his eyes, so he can close this door without regrets. 

And damn it all, but this is one door that Kraglin does not want shut. 

“I had a choice,” he says, eyes fixed on Kraglin while he picks at the stitches where the boot’s been patched. “Figs as my first mate. Bringing with her all the skrull-bloods on board. Or you. Because captains aren’t allowed to get compromised, not for nobody – ‘specially not for crewmen. I can’t be soft, Kraglin. Can’t ever be that.” 

It makes sense. Painful, undeniable sense. For once, it seems, Yondu’s telling the whole truth. Kraglin can’t deal with his honest gaze any longer, so he relocates to watch the flickering ceiling light, rolling down to rest on his shoulderblades. There’s no point dragging the conversation out further. If Yondu’s made his choice, bugger all Kraglin says or does is gonna change it. 

“So we – what, avoid each other? Until you overthrow Dagada and make captain?” he asks. Yondu shrugs. 

“Something like that.” More like forever. If Figs doesn’t want Yondu fraternizing with the lower echelons while he’s just an ambitious no-ranker, she’s not going to let him tarnish his reputation once he’s made it to the top. Kraglin feels a headache gathering. 

Okay. Okay, he can deal with this. He can be a goddamn adult. And if he’s boiling in his belly – anger at Yondu for not telling Figs to screw herself, that he can fuck who he fucking well wants to, and still be the best damn captain the Ravagers have ever seen; hate for Figs that’s in no way tempered by the knowledge that she’s only doing this because she sees him as a liability, a danger to Yondu and all the rest who’ve gotten themselves involved in this mess; and okay, yeah, a helluva lot of misery directed at himself – he can damn well keep his emotions under wraps until he’s in the relative privacy of his bunk. Or a bog. Wherever he can punch walls and not-cry in peace, and pray that he doesn’t get locked in because this time there’ll be no grimy blue angels coming to save him. 

Kraglin squeezes his eyes shut. Opens them again. 

“You still ain’t told me why ya lied,” he mutters. Then, at Yondu’s confused squint – “About the Collector. Why not say you were hired by the Cartel in the first place?” Because sure. He can imagine what happened after – Figs demanding that Yondu either deliver Kraglin alongside Baby or lose her and her colleagues’ support. Then, when he refused, giving him an alternative in the form of a new day shift, a blank slate from which to plot his mutiny. But this end still wants to be tied; it’s dangling loose in his mind and Kraglin knows that if he doesn’t get an answer, he’ll worry it until he goes insane. 

From Yondu’s face, it’s a stupid question. “Would you have helped me?” he asks. “Would ya have hunted with me, done any of that shit – heck, would ya even have trusted me, if ya knew I was working for your old boss?” 

…That’s also a stupid question. Kraglin sits up, arms folded, and glowers. “Yeah, of course! I mean – if you’d said something straight off, I wouldn't've considered that you were gonna hand me over. I know ya wouldn’t do that!” 

Yondu’s jaw works around air. “How?” he finally asks. He sounds genuinely confused. Kraglin could shake him. Fucking space pirates and their fucking trust issues, thinking everyone else sees the world as bleakly as they do. 

“Because you might act a jackass, but you ain’t a total asswad! I dunno – look, I just trust you, okay?” He stabs his finger at him, stopping short of jostling the cast. “I. Trust. You. Now respectfully, sir – deal with it.” Yondu’s gape isn’t especially flattering, but it’s one amusing part of a depressing-as-fuck conversation, so Kraglin huffs out a laugh. “C’mon, Yondu. You really doubt that? After everything? Fuck, you saved my life!” 

“Multiple times,” Yondu can’t help but remind him. Kraglin’s lips twitch up. 

“Yeah, and you’ll be reminding me of it every time you want something. I know.” They sit in silence. Yondu’s face has turned pensive. Kraglin clears his throat. “– Or not. Because. Uh. Never seeing each other again.” 

“Right,” Yondu agrees. 

There’s a little more silence. Kraglin’s throat’s dry, and not just because it recently escaped a brush with a radioactive arrow. Yondu seems to be contemplating the chipped plaster toe of his cast. He looks worn – smaller than usual, hunched a bit in his trenchcoat, not projecting personality and bad breath over any and all available space like he usually does. It is, Kraglin thinks, not a good look on him. He supposes it’s his duty to rectify that. 

“Wanna fuck?” he asks. Yondu’s head jerks up. 

“What?” 

“One last time?” Kraglin nods to the nearest storage closet, situated between two supply panels and, from the sliver he can see through the stained bulbous porthole, empty of all but ceiling-high columns of storage tat. And – aw, what the heck. He’s not going to get another chance. “You never claimed on that whole topping-thing.” 

Yondu’s fingers curl around the handle of his crutch. This is, Kraglin thinks, glancing at the swaddled leg, going to be an exercise in logistics. But hell. He’s practically a navigator now. He can work it out. And they’ve faced worse odds than a busted femur and a cramped space. 

“One last time,” Yondu repeats, just to be certain. Kraglin nods. He’s rewarded with a wide and infinitely wicked crack-toothed grin. “Shit, I thought you’d never ask.” 

________________________________________ 

It is, Kraglin thinks, stumbling out of the closet and zipping his jacket over the newly-depleted tube of lube, not unpleasant. Kinda fun, actually. Shame he won’t be doing it again. 

Yondu limps after him, smacking his sore ass with a crutch and smirking when Kraglin jumps and glares. “See ya around, Krags,” he says, turning away. Kraglin, stretching out his spine until it pops – riding someone on top of a stack of crates and having your head thunking repeatedly off the roof makes for sore necks – shakes his head and smiles sadly. 

“No you won’t,” he tells him. Yondu acknowledges with a wave of the crutch. He creaks off into the bowels of the ship, red overhead light glancing from the implant and washing his blue skin purple. At least he’s heading away from the Bridge. Kraglin congratulates himself on a distraction well-orchestrated. Yondu doesn’t look back – at least, not until after Kraglin’s turned away, and then it’s only for a moment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Another one bites the dust. Dang, I'll miss the old bat. Unfortunately it had to happen...**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Please express your horror and sadness below.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ****Although that is no way to mourn for your not-mom, Mr. Udonta.****
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> ********


	27. Chapter 27

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Dagada is creepy, Morlug hits things, and Kraglin and Yondu suck at breaking up.**

The first hint is when his Bridge shift gets cancelled. The door doesn’t snap open to his palmprint, and when he comms Isla he gets a blank buzz. There’s a message, feeding through the lines when shift’s over – Kraglin spent it prowling the stretch of corridor between the Bridge and the training rooms, past the open door of the captain’s cabin (which is currently undergoing renovations), before traipsing moodily to bunk.

“Sorry, kid,” is all Isla says. Then the comm jars to empty feedback. 

Kraglin smacks his watch on the bedpost hard enough to jolt his bones. 

“Shuddup,” moans the gassy boy above. He ignores him. The only thing he can glean from this is a hint of satisfaction: that Figs had been wrong and that his avoidance of Yondu hasn’t actually improved anything. Although of course, it ain’t _his_ best interests Figs has at heart. Kraglin doubts she’d give two shits if Dagada stripped him of every scrap of red leather and dumped him naked and blubbering on a Cartel-prowled satellite, for the mortal sin of having slept with his enemy. Thankfully, it hasn’t come to that. Just an endless tide of lilac scrub shift squares, which inundate his holo-roster from now until the next stardate millennium. 

Somehow, that’s worse. Silly, how he didn’t realize how much he enjoys Navving – having some modicum of authority, of importance – until that privilege was revoked. 

It dawns on Kraglin the next morning. He’s tramping past Morlug, who’s scampering Bridge-ways, arms overflowing with data-pads and looking as harried as if she’s been given five minutes to unclog a drain after Horuz’s passed through. “Heck. You and me. We’ve swapped.” 

Morlug spins on him with wild eyes. “What d’you mean?” 

Kraglin shakes his head. “Nothing. Those for the captain?” 

Morlug’s teeth grind like nails on slate. “Unfortunately. He’s got me with him twenty-four seven, and it’s all brain-work. Dammit, Krags; I ain’t smart enough for this shit.” It’s true. Morlug’s good at fixing things, better at breaking things, even better at punching things, and utterly abysmal with numbers, words, or anything that requires putting pen to paper and engaging the left hemisphere. Kraglin clamps down on his jealousy long enough to pity her. 

“You need a hand?” he asks, leaning on his mop. Morlug looks sorely tempted. “C’mon, anything. I’m going outta my mind here.” 

“Aw, what the heck… In here!” Grabbing his sleeve – and miraculously not overbalancing and depositing all fifty holopads to shatter on the floor – Morlug tugs him to one of the empty training rooms. The green bulb above the entrance flickers in time to the bounce of their boots over the grills. It’s bare, set in an iron cage, and the filiments spark yellow-white through the tinted glass. Heat efficient, but liable to zap if you prod it. Kraglin relieves Morlug of a handful of her pads, allowing her to open the door. She gives the handkey a tap. Nothing happens. The tap is turned into a pat, then a slap, then a slow, aggrieved slide of palm over prickly biolock. 

“I don’t fuckin' believe this,” she says. Shoves the pads under her other arm. “You try.” 

Kraglin does, and the door squeaks open. “What was that about?” he asks. Morlug’s scowl is darker than the wheeling cosmos. 

“Dagada’s new stroke of genius to keep folks from slacking on shift. Or at least, to keep me from avoidin' him like he’s got Moragian Plague. I’m only allowed where he wants me – which’s usually next to him.” 

Of course. _Prick who can’t handle rejection_. And seeing as Morlug ain’t interested in fucking anyone who walks on two legs – and, as far as Kraglin can tell, none of the crewmates who walk on more or less neither – Dagada’s going to be facing an awful lot of those. Tensions on Bridge must be astronomical. 

“Glad I could help you escape,” he says, sitting with his shoulders against the door and picking the first pad off the pile. Deal contracts. “He got any specs on what to approve?” 

He’s not sure what he wants to hear. If Dagada’s an improvement on Jora when it comes to taking jobs, there goes Yondu’s incentive for the crew to approve his captaincy. Sure, Yondu’s less of an asshole than Dagada – marginally. But he’s also one of the Ravagers labelled ‘do not fuck with for fear of death, no matter how much he looks like he’s laughing along; seriously, don’t’. To the crew, all that’ll boost one higher than the other is how much green they’re bringing in. 

So it’s a relief when Morlug shrugs and says “Same as always.” That means no jobs that require more than fifteen M-ships, nothing that trifles with any Empire, no loyalty to past patrons, and approximately two thirds of potential clients cut out. Kraglin scoffs. “What?” 

“C’mon, ya don’t think we could be doing better than this?” 

Morlug side-eyes him. “What, Udonta fuck you so hard his ideas fell out his dick and into your brain?” 

Kraglin gives her an appraising smirk. “You’re getting better at this insult thing.” 

“Fuck off.” 

“Nah, but seriously.” He spreads ten pads in front of them, scrolls through the lot, sorts them into ‘yes’, ‘maybe’, ‘no’, ‘what the fuck even is this; who would hire us to steal someone’s mucus’, and passes the piles to Morlug for inspection. “We got us a fleet. Second-biggest in the goddam quadrant. And we don’t even know battle formations! No wonder the Horde walk all over us when we clash on a job.” 

Morlug shifts his ‘what the fuck’ to the ‘yes’ pile, after she’s mouthed out the letters one-by-one to herself – “Something weird t’do with cloning,” she explains. “Dagada’ll go for that sorta thing. Probably send Udonta to get his hands dirty – s’a gross dig, but it pays well.” At Kraglin’s words though, she shakes her head. “I dunno. We ain’t much more than hired thugs. Don’t do plotting or planning; only take jobs we can figure out as we go.” 

Her acceptance of the Ravagers’ lot in the hierarchy of galactic organized crime is… needling. Perhaps Kraglin empathizes with Yondu’s politics more than he’d thought. 

“But we could, Morlug. Don’t you see that? We could do so much more –“ 

Morlug puts her pad down. “I ain’t listening to no mutiny-talk,” she states, eyes on the watery holo-light trapped between the pad's grubby glass screens. “I hate Dagada, sure – but I don’t want no part in Udonta’s trouble.” 

Kraglin frowns at her. “But –“ 

Morlug lifts her wristpiece, gives it a very pointed shake, and mimes zipping her lips. 

Oh. 

Okay. 

Kraglin reverts to the alphabet Dixie’d taught them: _L-I-S-T-E-N-I-N-G_? Morlug’s eyes puzzle out the shapes of his fingers as slow as they do the words on the page. Then, decisively, she nods. 

Fucking great. Dagada’s got her under surveillance, as well as confined to where he wants her to be. Kraglin wants to give her a hug – but Morlug’s dealing with this in the Ravager way: steadfast, absolute, and not batting an eyelid. He suspects that if he questions that resolve with pity, he’ll either direct her wrath upon himself (which would be bad) or make all those carefully-constructed walls come crumbling down (which would be infinitely worse). 

Kraglin finds his voice. “Y’know what? Fuck Udonta. That guy was gonna sell me back to the Cartel.” Morlug’s eyes bug out. 

“Really?” 

“Yeah, really!” Kraglin shuffles the next decastack of pads like they’re casino-cards, pulling up the curling Xandarian script and dismissing them to the ‘no’ pile one by one. “If Dagada tosses that jackass out the airlock by the end of the day, he’ll only get applause from me.” 

Because if Yondu and Figs are cutting him from their plans for securing the captaincy, what’s to stop Kraglin working on his own? 

It’s the same principle as his trick with the bilgesnipe. All he’s gotta do is lay enough bait for Dagada to forget every offence he’s shown him over the past three months, in favor of the chance to one-up Yondu. “It’s a shame the rest of the crew respect him so much,” Kraglin continues, more to Morlug’s wristwatch than her face. Morlug, snappy on the uptake, tilts it so it can capture every artificially aggravated nuance. “Y’know he’s the best earner we have. We can’t just get rid of him. Heck, if Dagada’s not careful, Udonta’ll be more popular than he is! All it’d take is another job as big as the bilgesnipe...” 

Morlug makes a nervous grimace. _T-O-O--F-A-R-?_ Kraglin signs. Then shakes his head when Morlug scrunches her eyes and circles her finger for him to repeat. He neatens the teetering ‘no’ pile, before heaping on another eight contracts. 

“But I know Udonta pretty well. Better than anyone, I reckon. And sure, he’s a tough bastard – but he’s got his weaknesses. Like any other man. All Dagada needs is someone to help him exploit them.” 

There. Perfect. 

Morlug flicks the casing of her wristpiece, as if to ensure the words have sunk in. Whatever tap Dagada’s put on her comm, it only works one way – but Kraglin can still imagine the man, hunched forwards in his seat, ghoulish smile illuminating his face brighter than the orbiting stars. He helps Morlug sort the rest of the jobs, wiping the pads they’ve unanimously agreed as being below Dagada’s interest level. He offers to carry a bunch back for her too – just the ones at the top of the mound, which are precariously sandwiched under her chin. But Morlug shakes her head. 

“Best he don’t get jealous,” she says shortly. 

That’s… a good point. A disturbing one too. Kraglin’s seen what happens to girls whose menfolks keep them on a choke-leash so tight that they’re pulled back and strangled for swapping a kind word with friends or family. It rarely ends pretty. But what can he do? Nothing. Not yet. So Kraglin nods, returning Morlug’s tentative smile. He watches her leave, bent back to balance the pads against her jacket-front, and heaves a sigh. 

Poor girl’s in deep. When you’re relieved to discover that a guy’s rap sheet doesn’t include rape or violent sexual assault, you know it ain’t the best situation. But if Kraglin strikes up a good rapport with Dagada, he might be able to dissuade the captain from his task of overworking Morlug’s poor brain until it snaps and she becomes a non-resisting vegetable. The promise of Yondu’s weaknesses on a platter should suffice. 

Kraglin only prays that he can think up some suitably realistic-sounding lies to feed Dagada by the time he’s commed. And that Yondu doesn’t find out about this, of course. 

________________________________________ 

Yondu breaks their mutually-agreed-upon rule of avoidance the next day. It’s Kraglin’s lunch break, and his hands are blistered from chafing up and down the handle of the scrub-brush. He’s got tingling legs from squatting for so long, and the repetitive circle of flannel over window has lodged an ache in his shoulders that doesn’t diminish for hours after he lets them droop. And two more scrub-shifts to go before he can fall into bed. Dang. How had Morlug survived a year of this? 

The queue ambles along at its usual deadbeat pace. Kraglin’s in front of Lizard Guy, who’s ignoring him; in turn, Kraglin’s vacantly counting the ridges ironed into the jacket of the guy in front, over and over, pondering what he’s going to say to Dagada. He’s at number seven for the eleventh time when Yondu storms up behind him, crutches clacking, and scoops him into a headlock. 

“The hell did ya tell her?” 

“Huh?” Kraglin struggles, choking. Then realizes Yondu’s dropped both crutches and is thus horrendously off-balance, and knocks his foot warningly against the cast leg. Yondu squeezes him tighter. Kraglin raps harder, eyes narrowing in conjunction with his airways. With a sulky snort, Yondu yields, and Kraglin spins to face him – 

To burst out laughing. 

“Ain’t funny,” Yondu hisses. Kraglin’s mind begs to differ. Since Dagada named himself captain, he hasn’t had a chance to get out a good guffaw, and the state of Yondu’s face is as amusing a sight as any he’s seen. “I said it _ain’t funny_! Your girl punched me in the nose! I’m gonna have shiners for days!” 

“Dixie ain’t my girl,” says Kraglin between sniggers. “And I’m kinda amazed she hit you that hard. Didn’t think she’d want to hurt her hands.” 

Yondu makes a frustrated click. “Not Dix, the other one!” Then, at Kraglin’s blank face – “Y’know. Ass, legs, pink.” 

“Morlug,” corrects Kraglin. Then blanches. “Shit. Did she mention something about –“ 

“Selling ya to the Hraxian Cartel? Oh yeah.” Yondu shakes his head in despair. “I was so darn surprised I let her punch me again.” 

That is a truly beautiful image. Kraglin stops laughing long enough to check – “Uh, sir? She’s still alive, ain’t she?” 

Yondu glowers. “I figured it were your fault rather than hers. So I spared her.” 

How merciful. Kraglin can’t help it. He snickers again. Yondu’s left eye’s a sack of navy blood, iris eclipsed by the fat lid. When he glimpses it through the swelling, it looks like a red grape being sucked on by chubby blue lips. His right eye’s only marginally better, and there’s another bruise on his jaw, evidently from Morlug’s second swing – “She’s got a good hook, don’t she sir?” 

Yondu rubs grumpily at his eye, winces, and decides to crush the life out of his crutch instead. “For a girl,” he mutters. “Hope she uses it on Dagada too.” There’s a buzz from both their comms. Yondu’s checks his and groans; Kraglin fights down a smirk. Speak of the devil. Looks like everything’s going according to plan. 

“Who’s calling?” he asks Yondu, before his attention can focus on Kraglin’s flashing wristpiece. 

“Figs,” says Yondu. He’s keeping his voice carefully abrupt. “I better –“ 

Kraglin swallows. The chronometer strapped around his forearm is suddenly made of lead. “Right. You better go.” 

There’s a moment where he thinks Yondu’s going to say something else. But then he scoffs under his breath, knuckles his raw eye again, and limps unevenly off. Kraglin watches the shape of his retreating back: sturdy and strong, leather trenchcoat drawn tight over it and stiff plaster cast sticking out below. “The fuck you staring at?” gripes Lizard Guy, shoving his shoulder. “Keep the line moving, Obfonteri.” Kraglin rolls with the blow. He shoots him a glare, and is gratified to see Lizard Guy lick his lips and nervously retract his arm. 

Yeah. That’s right. 

He collects a bowl and peels away from the canteen crush with his head held high. He’s just been summoned by the captain, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Kraglin's got a plan. Lord help us.**


	28. Chapter 28

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin steals a planet and fools a captain.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Shortish chapter, but keeps things rolling. And gives you an eensy snippet into the life of her royal Jora-ness - because you all didn't miss her enough already. >:D**

The crime scene – Kraglin can’t think of it as anything else – would make a forensic weep. Jora’s cabin has been dug out. Stripped to the bare panels. Ravaged. Every drawer has been rootled through, every identical jacket emptied – then pared of its studs and assorted gold effects, hosed down, and sent to the quartermaster for redistribution.

Captain’s cabin’s relatively large. Nowhere near as high as the dorms, but it’s as wide as it is long: a neat cube of interlocking tap-to-open drawers, stash-boxes, cubby-holes, and glimmering forcefield safes that’re biocoded to whoever sits in the main Bridge chair. They’re for storing valuable artefacts. Most are currently empty – proof of Jora’s slackening prowess. Kraglin, peeping through the doorway, sizes up the available space with undisguised contempt. One day every compartment’ll be full, every shelf heaving. Credits will pour into the Ravager coffers like grain from a silo. He only prays that this future comes under Yondu’s rule, not Dagada’s. 

All in all, the cabin’s a big room for one woman. Nevertheless, Kraglin’s amazed at the sheer volume of stuff that’s been dredged out. Jora’s personal effects have been tossed in haphazard heaps, no order or care. There’s practical equipment, trophies, small cheap tat that can only be sentimental in nature… All dumped for the perusal of greedy scavenger-hands. Inspecting the piles as he squeezes past on the wall-side feels intrusive, as if all of Jora’s secrets have been spilled, crudely displayed on these common grounds for any eye to see. 

Not that Kraglin affords her the respect of averting his gaze. He could do with a new gel-tin – and Jora seems the type to stash knives. 

One lopsided mound catches his attention. Kraglin squats over it, running fingers through thirty or so plastic baubles. Each has been meticulously painted, dabbled with a fine-hair brush to resemble planets, moons, gas-giants. Some are recognizable. Some are not. New worlds and old, Kraglin supposes, evening up the crooked pile. Perhaps it’s every planet Jora’s stolen from, or everywhere she’s lost someone she called a friend. Who knows? With a life this long, the connecting piece that links this sorry jigsaw could be anything. 

Kraglin weighs a replica of Hrax in his hand. It’s heavier than he expects. The plastic is as smooth and cool as a marble, the brushwork delicately blending through a spectrum of red and grey. A hoop in its top suggests it’s intended to hang from a mobile; apparently, Jora had kept her hobbies too. 

So. Before they’d been strung from her cabin’s low ceiling; back when Jora had been young enough to fly… Kraglin turns the bead over and over, contemplative. Had this hand-painted planet adorned the control console of another ambitious Ravager Ace, many decades ago? 

“There you are,” Dagada snaps from the doorway. “Come in, already. We don’t have long.” He sounds irritated, but not necessarily at him. He’s glowering at his wristpiece like it’s done him personal offence, and Kraglin notices with a lurch that it’s projecting Morlug’s name above a blip on the holograph map. Girl must’ve skipped shift again. 

Kraglin stands, secreting the planet in his palm. “Coming, sir,” he says. 

Dagada keeps flicking the electrocrystal in his wristpiece as they enter. The little pings are rhythmic and vexed; when they fail to produce results, Dagada mutters a selection of the choicest insults in every language from A’askvarii to Xandarian, and heads for the minimalist array of Jora’s furniture that hasn’t been disassembled for scrap. He takes the chair. That leaves Kraglin with the bed or the desk, neither of which are suitable for a subordinate. He hovers uncertainly in the door, at a military at-ease, comforted by the crisp brush of air over his neck. Feels good, to have that escape nearby – just in case this all goes tits-up. But that minuscule relief is soon denied. 

“Shut it,” Dagada orders. Kraglin, keeping his head stooped, does so. He spares one last look for the sad pile of planets, and shakes the smuggled bauble into his jacket pocket while Dagada’s distracted. Which he is. By jabbing open a private commink, and belting – “You’re due on the engine deck, Morlug! Where I will be inspecting in five minutes. I expect to find you there.” 

There’s a startled meep. A sullen “Aye, sir.” Kraglin studies his feet while Dagada aborts the comm. 

“Stupid woman,” the captain mutters, tipping up on the chair’s back legs. “Doesn’t know a good offer when it’s in front of her.” 

Kraglin hopes he slips and dashes his skull on the edge of the desk. “Why’ve ya called me, sir?” he asks, faux-timid. “I, uh, do something wrong?” 

He almost regrets diverting Dagada’s attention from poor Morlug when that dead-grey gaze, duller than the marble rolling in his pocket, settles on him. Dagada smiles. There’s dinner slops caught between his teeth. “Not yet,” he says. “You may have noticed that my promotion came about rather suddenly.” 

Kraglin, face artfully confused, shrugs. “I guess? I mean, I’m pretty much a rookie; I dunno how these things go…” 

He’s evaluated for a long moment. Kraglin takes care not to meet Dagada’s eyes, shooting his gaze everywhere but the captain sprawling over Jora’s chair, and cracking each knuckle and tugging on the frayed leather of his sleeve. His nervy agitation isn’t all for show. _C’mon,_ he thinks, listening to Dagada’s measured breaths. _You like to think folks’re beneath you, don’tcha? Here’s your chance. I’m dumb Hraxian trash. Made fun of you back when I was running with Udonta – but now you’re captain and Udonta’s more interested playing mutineer than fucking some rookie, I ain’t so big no more. And I know it._

Gradually, incrementally, the thoughts coalesce. Dagada’s sneer turns disdainful, but sapped of any real hostility; Kraglin watches himself fade into the throngs of faceless, nameless Ravagers who occupy minimal space in the back of Dagada’s mind. _That’s right. Nobody important – some dumb upstart who gave you shit, but who ain’t worth causing fuss over. Especially not when I’ve got something you need._

“So,” says Dagada. He crosses his legs and steeples fingers under his chin. “Your name – Obfanara?” 

“Obfonteri,” Kraglin corrects. Then hems into his fist like he’s embarrassed at having to do so. “But you can call me whatever, cap’n; I ain’t fussed.” 

“Obfonteri,” repeats Dagada. His grey eyes sweep him head to toe: the belt that Kraglin wears laced through his high collar; the pad stitched over his right shoulder; the heavy rubber gloves he’s picked up from that unfortunate Shi’ar fella who’d been sucked into a malfunctioning jet booster last week’s hangar shift. What meager personalizing features he’s had time to add, lazy lunch hours spent stitching and tacking with his boots propped on Morlug’s lap in an empty storeroom, feel tame in comparison to Dagada’s shredded sleeves and the brass buttons pinned to the seams of his pants. But his effects are a helluva lot less garish, if he says so himself. 

Kraglin stares straight ahead, bearing the inspection. It finishes with a mild sniff. “You know what I see when I look at you?” Kraglin shrugs. “Scruffy, scrawny streak of shit.” Dagada laughs. “You probably have lice. I have no idea what Udonta saw in you - but then again, unlike Udonta, I don’t make a habit of compromising myself by fucking fellow crewmembers.” A pause. “Or men.” 

Good for him. Kraglin works the tension out of his jaw. What does he want: a medal? 

Not that Kraglin’s bothered by the insinuation that he’s Udonta’s bitch or whatever. Or that the reminder that he's kinda somehow managed to fall for a dude still rankles. (Okay, so maybe it does. Kraglin’s working on it.) What really gets him is the hypocrisy. Because the only reason Dagada hasn’t slept with any crewmembers is because he’s keeping those eerie eyes fixed on Morlug, and she can smell the crazy a mile off. 

It’s an opening though. And an opening’s all Kraglin needs. 

“You call me here to chew me out about fucking folks on the High Command, sir?” he asks. “Because you ain’t gotta worry on that front no more.” He drops his head, arms crossed, and aims for somewhere between angry and offended. “Apparently, Udonta don’t know what he saw in me neither. Not that I give a shit. Ugly fucker was shit in the sack –“ 

Dagada practically winces. “I don’t want to know,” he says. Somebody’s het up over traditional Xandarian values – _thou shalt not fuck those thou ain’t reproductively compatible with_ , and the rest of that pro-evolution Expansionist bullshit. Eugh – he probably wants Morlug to _bear his children_. Kraglin staves off the shudder. “And Udonta hasn’t been part of the High Command since Jora demoted him! He’s nothing. A nobody.” 

“A nobody everyone respects,” Kraglin mumbles. Dagada’s head snaps up. 

“What?” 

“Nothin’.” 

Dagada’s gaze is livelier when he’s pissed. Marginally. As he wrestles himself under control, rubbing through his short-shorn thatch and readjusting his crossed legs with a squeak of leather, those eyes deaden in tandem, going from storm-grey to gunmetal. There’s no animation there. No vivacity. Dagada might be as ambitious as Yondu, but he has no grand plan, no ideology that looks to the future. Those eyes only see the present actuality – himself, lounging on Jora’s throne, lord of all he surveys. If that ‘all’ is a rustbucket spacefleet and a bunch of dumb brutes who don’t know how to pilot their M-ships in basic goddamn battle formation, so be it. Dagada doesn’t have the vision to make the Ravagers anything else. 

“You say Udonta is respected,” he says. The words are soft, calmly pitched. But Dagada can don the mask of the erudite captain all he wants – Kraglin knows that underneath there’s only self-importance and ash. He hikes one shoulder higher than the other in noncommittal answer. “It’s true. I have the grace to admit it.” Another gold star for him. “However, as I’m sure you’ll agree – he doesn’t deserve that respect. Infighting always follows a captain’s demise – people will throw support behind any idiot who makes a claim to the chair. But it would be foolish to let an ignorant, uneducated oaf like Udonta gather support. Think of what might happen if he were to succeed!” 

Kraglin hums, as if comprehension is starting to dawn. “You saying, sir, that that respect what Udonta’s got ought to be, uh, transferred to a worthier candidate?” 

Dagada actually appears surprised that he can use words of more than two syllables. For a moment, Kraglin frets that he’s laid it on too thick, that this is all going to come tumbling down – but then Dagada smiles. “Indeed. I wonder if you’d be able to assist?” 

He can’t let his relief show. Kraglin settles for a lazy smirk. “Be my pleasure, sir. When do we start?” 

Now that he’s achieved his dream of captaincy, Dagada’s days cycle around two central pivots – desire for Morlug, and a desperate, rabid terror that Yondu is going to snap his fingers and wrench the foundations of this new life out from under him. When one of these fixations clashes with the other, it’s unstoppable force meets immovable object. Dagada bandies back and forth in indecision before Kraglin makes to excuse himself. 

“No worries sir,” he says. “I’ll wait.” He nods to the blinking beacon on Dagada’s wristpiece, which is tattling on Morlug for having snuck out of the engine rooms again, and quashes the guilt that’s leadening the lining of his guts. “You go get your girl.” 

________________________________________ 

They dock at a station the next day. Kraglin’s assimilated into the ranks of Ravagers tasked with heaving supplies to and fro along the jetty. There’s no stock to smuggle – it’s a food-and-fuel run, and by the soggy crumbles leaking from the bottom of the protein-mash crate he’s hauling, not a very well-funded one. Kraglin leers at a trio of Horde girls as he follows Morlug through the dock; he receives three middle fingers in return, snickers to himself, and marches up the shuttle gangplank, ignoring the ground mash residue collecting in the folds of his jacket. Isla’s waiting for him, playing with a new piercing in her nose. She must’ve got it while they were docked in – Kraglin’s impressed that she’d managed to locate a spare spot among the mass of silver and less sterile metals cluttering up her face. 

He nods at it, as he unloads his crate onto Lizard Guy’s waiting forklift. “Nice hoop.” 

Isla flutters her eyelashes. “Flatterer. Nice of you to notice, though. No one else has.” She doesn’t sound bothered – Kraglin supposes that when one has as many piercings as Isla, the novelty starts to wear. He grins, settling against the wall besides her and shaking out his aching arms as Lizard Guy chugs off through the towering packing crates. 

“What can I say? Good attention to detail – the ladies love it.” 

“As will the nav system.” Isla drops her piercing long enough to squeeze his shoulder in congratulation – Kraglin tries not to squirm as pus-y blood joins the rest of the grime smeared over his leathers. Then registers what she’s said. 

“Huh?” 

“Yeah that’s right!” Isla bounces her hip off his thigh. “You’re back on Bridge, kiddo! What did ya have to do, suck Dagada off?” 

Behind him, Morlug chokes on a laugh. Kraglin shudders. “I’d rather die,” he says fervently, and Morlug stops guffawing long enough to add in a sober – 

“You and me both.” 

That kills the conversation a little. Kraglin gnaws his thumbnail and makes worried eyes at Isla. She sucks up one side of her mouth. _What can you do?_

Nothing’s the answer – at least, not yet. But this at least is a step in the right direction. Being promoted to Bridge means that Dagada’s been taken in by his performance. Not that he necessarily trusts him – trust is an uncertain luxury, for captains and aspiring captains alike. But at least Kraglin’s not under suspicion for being Yondu’s eyes and ears. No, in Dagada’s mind he’s a dumb Hraxian kid: green in life as well as Ravaging, vengeful after being ditched by his older fuckbuddy. 

It is, Kraglin thinks, the perfect deception. Feed a man the hint of a clichéd story, and he fills the gaps on his lonesome. Nope, Kraglin’s in the inner circle. And he’s gonna use this. For Yondu. For Morlug. For the good of them all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So, Kraglin's grand plan's unfolding. But now he's got Dagada's ear, how does he plan on resolving this mess? Dun dun duuuun...**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Leave us a comment, brah.**
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	29. Chapter 29

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin is cunning, Dagada is desperate, and Yondu just wants to go the fuck to sleep.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Hey ho! I really gotta amp up my study hours soon, so this chappie's a day early! I'll post the next at some point tomorrow, if I edit it in time. ;)**

Dagada’s gaze prickles his neck throughout his nav-shift. Kraglin works as surely as he can, but he’s never at his best when he’s being watched, and he fumbles the engine controls until Isla fusses him off and sticks him on route planning. There he can lose himself in space’s drifting scattergram, where constellations and star-systems are stratified one over the other in a glimmering three dimensional maze.

Each pinprick has a name. It scrolls through the air when Kraglin hovers his finger over it – he recognizes none of them. They’re in the outworlds now. Beyond Empire control. Circling out past Knowhere – the furthest from home he’s ever been. And yet home’s all around him, as certain and unyielding as the steel beneath his boots. 

Kraglin paints them a spiraling path around a twin-star schematic, dancing from gravitational field to gravitational field to minimize fuel requirements. The apex of each elliptical orbit can be broken with a pump of the thrusters, and they’ll sail his course practically on momentum alone. Isla casts an approving eye over his work when he’s done, fingers flexing in the heart of the galleon’s holographic engine display. 

“Nice job, tall stuff,” she says. There’s one positive about Isla handling the navs – she can’t slap his ass when her wrist movements are coded to the steering. Kraglin grins at her. He’ll never have Isla’s talent for the manual controls, or her gift with the charts. But if he can be a damn fine apprentice, that’s good enough for him. 

“Obfonteri,” says Dagada. His voice is quiet, but it sizzles through the general burbling hubbub of the Bridge like plasma through flesh. Kraglin’s spine tenses, every vertebrae clicking to attention. 

“Sir?” 

“My cabin.” Dagada stands, and strides out. Kraglin and Isla boggle after him. 

“You really are sucking him off,” Isla says. Kraglin swats her head. 

“Nah, he’s just promoting me to your position. Catch ya later.” He hops off the platform, waving behind him, and scurries to trot on Dagada’s heels. The captain’s taken to wearing a fitted set of armor under his jacket; the chestpiece is visible beneath the threadbare edge of his shorn-off sleeves. Skrull battle gear. Flexible and light, giving its owner a full range of motion while providing protection against stabs, shots, and a low-grade plasma bolt. It won’t do much against radioactive arrows, but Kraglin figures Dagada’s wearing it more for the mental comfort. 

Not that Yondu would _actually_ assassinate him. He doesn’t think. He hopes. Kraglin hasn’t seen him in a while: and let’s be honest – with Yondu, it’s kinda hard to tell. 

But if he’s got any brains in him at all (Kraglin’s fairly certain he does, even if he hides them half the time and acts on impulse for the rest) Yondu’ll know that the main dampener on his popularity is his penchant for violence. Any guy who’s got a different threat for every hour of the day and who cheerfully sticks arrows in anyone who dares insinuate he’s soft, is gonna have a hard time convincing his crew that he’s not a despot-in-the-making. Nope. Killing Dagada ain’t gonna see Yondu through this. 

Sure, the Ravagers love a good punch-up – but that’s entertainment, not how the command hierarchy’s determined. Can’t have the captain’s seat occupied by thugs alone; there’s got to be a sliver of cunning thrown into the mix. If Yondu offs Dagada without fitting cause, he’ll be stabbing himself in the back on the way. But perhaps, Kraglin thinks, as Dagada punches open the door to his quarters and strides on in, there’s another resolution. A peaceful one. If he can only get them both to agree to it. 

Yondu shouldn’t be a problem. He hopes. Even if he were to be, it’s Dagada who he’s got in front of him now, and it’s Dagada he should be concentrating on. And so, Kraglin gets to it. He walks over to the desk, set up in the middle of the available floorspace to create an office-like atmosphere, and slams his palms down on it flat. 

“You gotta talk to him,” he says. Dagada frowns at his hands like he’s not sure what they’re doing there; Kraglin hastily relocates them to his pockets. “Udonta, I mean. You gotta show you ain’t afraid of him –“ 

“Of course I’m not afraid of him!” Dagada fingers the creases where the jacket’s drawn tight over his armoured belly, glare just daring him to comment. The flames on his arms bulge over biceps and coolant scars alike. Kraglin relents. 

“I know that, sir. But the crew don’t. If you don’t confront him, they’ll think you’re a… well, I don’t wanna say, sir.” 

_A coward._ Dagada’s expression darkens. “Talk to him? I should throw him in the brig, here and now. Or better yet, overboard. Solve the problem permanently.” 

Kraglin shakes his head – “Bad idea.” 

“Why?” 

“Because he ain’t done nothing yet.” He exhales noisily and starts to pace, turning slow circles around the interior of Dagada’s cabin. “Can’t be a tyrant – not even against Udonta. Crew won’t stand for it. They’ll mutiny, and then that dim guy you’ve made first mate – whassisface?” 

“Thrabba,” Dagada mutters. Of course. The fella who’d first recruited him, who’s as big as an i-beam and about as bright. 

“Thas right, Thrabba. He’ll be in charge. Then we’re all fucked.” 

That, at least, they can agree upon. Heaven knows how Thrabba’d ended up as Dagada’s second – Thrabba himself certainly doesn’t, and what little confidence he’d once possessed has swiftly withered under his newfound sense of undeserved authority. The big lug creeps around the corridors like he’s terrified of stepping on anyone else’s toes, rather than the other way around. He’s probably the only crewman dumb enough for Dagada to trust. 

Dagada’s eyes thin. “Very well. I see your point – but talking? You believe Udonta would listen to me?” 

He actually sounds hopeful at the prospect. Kraglin cuts him off. “Course not. Guy’s as arrogant as he’s hot-headed – but we can use that, y’see?” He takes a breath. Leans forwards, resting his hands on the desk again – this time, Dagada doesn’t stop him. “Have it somewhere public-like,” he says in a low voice. “Canteen. On the Bridge. Show the crew that you can handle things straightforward and honest – well, honest as Ravagers get. Like you’d have to with a client, y’know? And let Udonta fly off the handle and show ‘em all how useless he really is.” 

Dagada... considers it. “Do I have to let him shoot me?” he asks. Kraglin shrugs. 

“He ain’t gonna do that. Not when there’s crew all round. Might get in a punch – but it’s for a good cause, right?” 

Dagada considers some more. “One punch,” he says. 

“That’s all it’d take.” 

“Then I can hit him back?” 

“If ya want. Drag him off to the Brig an’ all, so long as he swings first.” He holds up a hand. There’d better be a contingency, just in case this all goes tits up… “I’d advise against the airlock though, sir.” 

There’s genuine bafflement on Dagada’s face. “Why?” 

“Because…” Kraglin racks his brains. Punching out the captain could be construed as mutiny, after all – and once that accusation’s been levied, there’s no bars set on what Dagada could do. Have Yondu whipped. Sold to the Collector as a rare specimen. Served up in canteen. Thankfully, inspiration hits – with the memory of putrescent bilgesnipe meat-breath and a hypodermic needle jammed in a black-bleeding eyeball. “Udonta’s an earner. Remember how much Baby – uh, the bilgesnipe, brought in?” _And please don’t remember how you tied me up for bait. And how I repaid the favour and used you as a convenient counterweight_. Kraglin swallows and continues. “S'good business t’keep him around. Sure, it’ll take you a while to beat him down, show him who’s boss. But it’ll be worth it, once the credits start rolling in.” 

“Hm.” Dagada strokes the hair he’s cultivating on his yellow upper lip. “Talking though… What should I say?” 

Oh, this is too easy. Kraglin scrunches his brows, as if in deep thought, then snaps his fingers. “Tell him… tell him that you’ve noticed he’s after your post. And ask him why he thinks he’ll be better than you.” 

Dagada blinks. “What, in front of everyone? But won’t he answer?” 

Far, far too easy. “And he won’t have anything to say, will he?” Kraglin smirks. “C’mon, sir. Udonta’s all bite and no bark – he just wants your seat. He ain’t got the first clue of what to do once he sits in it.” Except take on more challenging jobs. Expand the enterprise. Make the Ravagers a force to be reckoned with. Kraglin leans in. “Ask him that, flat out. He’ll be stumped. Crew’ll realise he ain’t half the man he claims to be, and you walk out with – what? A bruised face? And a secured captaincy in the belt, and an excuse to dump Udonta off in the brig. Two chitauri, one plasma shot, yeah?” 

There’s a pause, as Dagada runs over what he’s said and repeats it to himself within the confines of his mind, solidifying the plan, teasing out the holes and finding them negligible. “This could work,” he says slowly. Kraglin could clap. 

“It could,” he agrees. 

Dagada stands, fiddling with his wristpiece – “I’ll summon him to the Bridge now.” And – no, shit, Kraglin’s gotta find Yondu first, tell him what his part’s gonna be in all of this. Otherwise he _will_ punch Dagada in the gob like the bastard deserves, and all his hard bootlicking will have been for nothing. Kraglin hastens to block the captain, going as far as to grab his wrist before he can scroll through the speed-dial. He receives a sharp wrench and a snarl, but ignores them both – this is more important than pandering to Dagada’s wounded pride. 

“No! No, that ain’t right. He’s on his night-shift now. Wouldn’t seem fair, would it? It’d look like you was, uh, taking advantage of the situation. Think of the crew – think of what they’re seeing!” 

The muscles in Dagada’s forearm remain clenched a stubborn moment, then soften. “When?” 

Kraglin wets his lips. He can’t ask for long. That’d be suspicious. Dagada wants to deal with the Udonta-problem as soon as possible – and, as far as he knows, Kraglin does too. “Tomorrow?” he hazards. “Get. Um. A good night’s sleep on it?” 

Dagada mulls it over, his nail tapping rapidly on the wristpiece’s leather strap. Kraglin’s heartbeat revs to match. Then, finally – finally – he acquiesces. Snatches Kraglin’s arm in turn and reels him in close, lathing rancid breath over his cheeks like the lick of a gaseous tongue. “Very well. The canteen. Our lunch hour. Be there.” 

Kraglin nods. Fights to remain still and stone-faced as Dagada grunts in satisfaction and releases him, and manages to take the path to the door at a walk rather than a sprint. As soon as the latch clicks to behind him, he’s off. Figs is gonna be midshift somewhere unspecified – probably the engine-room, buried in the ship’s churning belly. Yondu’s been asleep five hours, but Kraglin convinces himself that his natural inclination to skewer any unfortunate soul who rouses him will be diminished in favour of gratitude when he hears Kraglin’s plan. 

After all, it’s foolproof, right? All Yondu has to do is keep his cool. Dagada’s gonna as good as invite him to tell the crew every one of his visions for the future of the Ravagers. He’ll speak and they’ll listen – and with the majority on his side, Dagada will have no choice but to abdicate. If the man’s lucky, Yondu’ll let him stay on as a midshipman rather than delivering him straight to the Kyln. 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin’s boots thud off the grill-plates. Unlike in the less populated hallways, the flooring in this part of the ship is kept clean and actually rewelded to its molds once in a blue moon – as a result, the usual ringing clang has been muted to a dull thwack. The rebound reverberates through Kraglin’s calf muscles. He shoves aside a bunch of Ravagers lounging around on break and vaults an unfortunate rookie who’s been assigned to scrub armed only with a toothbrush, and who is too busy scowling at the fizzling remnants of a fuel spillage to notice. 

The canteen’s down a level. Kraglin levers himself over the ladder shaft. He considers the drop. Then props his boots one on each side of the rungs, hollers once – “look out below!” – and slides the next ten meters at half-freefall. He hits deck hard enough to make the light panels spit. 

“What’s the hurry?” growls a thin Kree. Another Ravager aims to cuff his head, but Kraglin ducks the swipe and keeps running, yelling “Sorry!” as he goes. He barges into the canteen queue, surrendering himself to the tender mercies of elbows, knees, bootcaps, and accusations of pushing in line, and staggers to crash and breathe against the L-block door. Canteen’s rowdy as ever. He’s steamrolled by sound on all sides. Fuck. Remind him to keep the chat down next time he goes to nab one of Shorro’s bowls; how anyone in this dorm isn’t a raving, sleep-deprived madman is beyond him. 

With that in mind, he really hopes that Yondu gives him time to explain himself before whistling. 

Kraglin sighs. Scrapes his messy hair into something resembling a Mohawk, and pokes the pressure pad to release the door. 

The dorm is dark and warm. The ship can be frigid one day and broiling the next – there’s little rhyme or rhythm to it. Figs had explained it to Morlug, who had in turn explained it to Kraglin, who had promptly forgotten every word, but it’s something to do with solar energy collection batteries glitching and overcompensating output to the heat generators. As it is, their leather jackets either absorb the cold or keep in the sweat. It’s like being garbed in a plastic binbag. Kraglin wouldn’t swap ‘em out for the world though – he’s survived too many coolant leaks for that. Walking into Yondu’s dorm, the wash of humid breeze from the rust-stippled fan vents is positively balmy. Kraglin tips his neck back and basks, letting the warmth seep into his skin. The gooseflesh prickling his forearms slowly settles. Okay. Maybe this ain’t so bad. 

There’s a scuffle outside. Someone crashes into the doorframe, and every bunk block sways from side to side with the vibration of the walls. There’s a low groan from overhead. Kraglin winces. On second thoughts… 

Yondu’s been lucky enough to nab a bunk on the far side of the dorm. It’s not the one he’s assigned to – Kraglin almost shakes awake a querulous-faced rookie, whom Udonta must have elected to swap with. He wonders how that conversation had gone. He scans the rookie’s features with his wristpiece, cross-references name against allocated bunk, and finally locates Yondu in the corner furthest from the door, curled on his side with brace-bound leg poking out from under the blanket, a set of noise-cancellation buds wedged deep enough to tickle his eardrums. 

Well. Whispering’s not going to get him anywhere. Only one option left. 

Kraglin prays Yondu’s not practiced at whistling through gags. He rubs his hand on his pants – which, being just as grubby as the rest of him, serve as a poor towel. Then steels himself, and plasters his palm firmly over Yondu’s mouth. 

Yondu snaps awake. Eyes and implant glowing like the mouths of miniature volcanoes. 

Shit. 

He flails, but only for a moment – then his fingers lock round Kraglin’s wrist, skin rough and navy in the dimness. One twist will snap the bones. Kraglin yanks his hand back – then, working only on panic, replaces it with his face when Yondu makes to yell. 

“Hey! Hey, hey, hey, just me!” 

He’s bundled himself half-onto the bunk, legs left behind on the ladder and torso hunched over Yondu’s. It’s dark, but Yondu’s eyes are glowing bright enough that Kraglin can make out the sharp high wedge of his cheekbone and the roughness of stubble over his jaw. He wonders if Yondu can see the same on him – harried eyes, pupils marooned in the white; cheeks pinched and sallow. 

The stress of the last couple of days: playing Dagada, piloting the ship… It’s taken it out of him, Kraglin knows. Add to that that his quest for hairgel had been unsuccessful – remembering Jora’s wispy grey-yellow bun, he doesn’t know why he’d bothered looking in the first place – and he’s more scarecrow than man: a tight-wound bundle of sticks and string, running on willpower more than energy. He doesn’t feel tired though. He’s buzzing. Buzzing with the hope that this might actually work. 

His enthusiasm isn’t contagious. Not at Yondu’s version of four in the morning. But it’s a clear enough symptom of an underlying plot to prevent him being shot straight away; Yondu sits in his bunk, fishes out his earbuds with a wince and a grunt, and gestures for Kraglin to join him. Kraglin dutifully crawls into the warm space. He smells sweat and leather and something solely Yondu as he leans on his pillow, and can’t hide his smile. 

Fuck Figs. This, right here? She can’t take this away from them. Heck. Perhaps Kraglin oughta fuck him now – an early celebration. Or a goodbye, because tomorrow’s make or break; and while Kraglin’s optimistic, he’s well aware of the danger that they’ll both be courting. He scoots along the mattress, close enough to brush his thigh along Yondu’s calf, and wonders if he can reproduce a blowjob as decent as the one Dixie’s given him last time they’d – 

Yondu rubs one eye and yawns into a dry fist, scratching at the brace. “What you want, rookie?” he asks. 

“Kraglin,” Kraglin says, patient as ever. Yondu accepts the correction with a humph. 

“S’the middle of the fuckin’ night –“ 

“Can’t wait til morning.” 

Thankfully, the majority of the folks around them have invested in earbuds. They sleep as silent as coma patients – bar the occasional snore. If any haven’t been lucky enough to find plugs in their possession, through means legal or otherwise, they know better than to lob boots at Yondu for the heinous crime of after-hour noise. Yondu yawns again, wider, showing off every last molar. There’s as much metal in his mouth as there is enamel. Those that haven’t been capped are either chipped or filed, and the sharp incisors are crooked. He runs a navy tongue over his lips – for a moment, Kraglin thinks he’s going to whistle, but he only licks at the chaps and pulls his eyebrows together like his body’s still deciphering why it isn’t asleep. 

“Get on with it then,” he grumbles, waving at Kraglin. Kraglin pulls himself crosslegged, knee bumping the ladder, and begins. 

“M’sorry,” says Yondu halfway through. That declaration in itself is surprising enough to snap Kraglin’s mouth shut. Then Yondu scratches his nose and swallows another yawn, eyes twitching open. “Think I dozed off. Can you repeat the last bit?” 

It’s too dark for him to tell if Kraglin’s coughing or snickering. Kraglin makes the most of it. “I said, sir – Dagada’s gonna challenge you to tell the crew what you’d change if you was captain. So that’s your chance. All those things you’ve told me about, all them grand ideas to make us bigger and better, a name worth fearing –“ 

“Hold on a sec.” Yondu frowns. “You saying I can’t just punch him in the face?” 

It’s gonna be a long night. 

Kraglin has to explain the whole thing twice for it to sink in. And then he’s hardly met with the praise and approval he’d been expecting. Yondu stares at him blankly. “Ya want me to make a speech?” 

It sounds weird when he says it like that, but he can’t fault the logic. Kraglin grimaces. “I guess?” 

Yondu shakes his head. “Won’t work.” 

“Why not?” 

“Ravagers don’t do diplomacy.” It’s a fair point. But not one Kraglin’s willing to concede – he pushes forwards, resting on his knees. 

“Only because they never try! C’mon, money’s the way to all our hearts, right? And you’re better at making money than Dagada could ever hope to be. With you at the helm, Ravager fleet could be biggest in the dang quadrant – and anyone who’d pick Dagada over ya has gotta be blind.” 

Yondu doesn’t let himself be flattered. “It ain’t about choice though. You’re askin’ me to ask them to go against what they know – to mutiny on a captain that ain’t done them no wrong…” 

”But if they only heard what you had to say,” Kraglin presses. “If you could only tell ‘em…” 

Yondu looks up. “What d’you know about how this works? Rookie?” This time, that nickname isn’t so fond. 

Kraglin wants to push onwards. This is important. This is needed. Not just for his sake, or Yondu’s – or even poor Morlug’s. The Ravagers could be so much more. He sees that now. He believes it. And he wants to make it happen – he’ll drag Yondu to the captain’s chair and nail him there by force if he has to. 

Although he’d rather. Y’know. Nail him. There. Or here. He ain’t fussy. 

Kraglin bites his tongue. It’s been a while, that’s all. A whole goddam week. But in this case alone, needs must that his cock comes second-place to his brain. “I know I ain’t a Ravager born and bred,” he starts, spreading his hands in appeasement. One cracks painfully off the bunkpost, so he buries them in the blanket instead. “I mess up. I piss people off. I make a new mistake every damn day – but I learn from it, sir. Y’know I do.” Yondu’s watching him, expressionless. Kraglin takes it as a cue to continue. “And what I’ve learnt is, we got a helluva lot of potential. And we deserve a captain who knows how to tap it. So you’ve got my vote. And I can’t speak for everyone, but I’ll bet you – I’ll bet you a whole crate of Isla’s moonshine – that they’ll listen. They’ll listen to ya. Will you listen to me?” 

Yondu’s red eyes are hooded with something other than sleep. They glimmer dimly, fireflies in the dark. The shadows swim and shift as he bobs his head once, just once – that’s all the answer Kraglin needs. 

“Thank you,” he breathes. 

The tension relief is physical, a bolt that surfs him head to toe. Yondu’s undamaged leg is stretched out on his left, the braced one on his right, and the space between them is dark and inviting. Kraglin crawls forwards, Yondu’s unreadable gaze following him the whole way. 

He pauses closer than he’d intended. He expects Yondu to jolt away, like they both tend to when faced with anything resembling intimacy; but this game of chicken has no clear victor and they wind up nose-to-nose, breathing each other’s air. Kraglin can feel the difference in their body temperature through Yondu’s thin black sleeping shirt. 

“Can I –“ he starts. Blinks down at Yondu’s blue lips, the chip of a tooth glinting between, and ghosts his fingers over them, rubbing them apart. “Can I kiss you?” 

Yondu doesn’t answer, but he angles his jaw away. Kraglin’s fingers slip. Skid over stubble and bone. He sighs. 

“Okay. I’ll. Uh, I’ll go. See you in the morning, sir – sir?” 

A hand settles over his neck. Yondu pulls him in, slow so as not to spook. Kraglin tilts his head on instinct. But Yondu freezes, eyes narrowing, and Kraglin sheepishly sets himself to rights. He’s rewarded with the sight of Yondu’s relaxing face, close to the point of out-of-focus, and the cool press of a forehead against his own. 

It’s… it’s not exactly romantic. In fact, Kraglin remembers making the same gesture with a fellow gutter-rat after a heist-gone-right, spurred by the victory-high and the promise of full stomachs. Yet somehow, in this place, this situation, it means so much more. 

A promise. A declaration. A silent bond. 

It’s more than he could ever have asked for in words, and more than Yondu would ever give in return. Suddenly, missing out on his kiss isn’t such a disappointment. Kraglin leans into the pressure. Yondu’s hand is heavy. His thumb moves in tiny circles, honing on the sensitive patch under Kraglin’s ear, and there’s a miniscule vibration, so infinitesimally small that Kraglin wouldn’t notice under any other circumstance, which emanates from Yondu’s implant and thrums through both of their skulls. 

“Goodnight sir,” he whispers. Yondu nods, moving him in tandem. 

“Night,” he replies.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Aw, aren't they cute?? Wouldn't it be awful if something... were... to go... horribly... wrong...?**


	30. Chapter 30

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin puts his plan into action, everything goes excellently, and nobody gets hurt.**

Kraglin bounces through first shift as if his rubber bootsoles have been replaced with compression coils. He’s trawling the ammunition stores with Lizard Guy and a few of his buddies, sorting working blasters from the duds. This requires a lot of tense trigger-testing, and more than one shot gone awry. Thankfully, they’re all on their lowest setting and won’t do more than sting – when Lizard Guy discharges one pointblank against his shoulder with an unconvincing ‘oops’, it doesn’t singe the leather.

“What’s got you so bouncy anyway?” he asks, as Kraglin all but bolts for the door the moment the shift-switch siren on their wristwatch blares. 

Kraglin pauses to grin. “Hungry, I guess!” 

Hungry for Dagada’s downfall. Hungry for one goddam plot the endgame of which won’t be someone getting an arrow through the skull. Lizard Guy sniffs and slouches after him, his posse of hulking goons in cohort. More and more Ravagers gather as they near the canteen – word must’ve gone out already, that something’s about to go down. By the time he pushes through to the front of the crowd, Kraglin feels like a centurion leading a battle charge. 

The middle of the canteen is cleared. Oh, there’s still chairs and scuffed tables and such, but it’s empty as a plague circle; an amphitheater that stands a good six meters in diameter, with walls of tight-packed scruffy red leather. In this Ravager-formed corral stand two gladiators – one tall and buttercup-skinned, his bare arms crisscrossed with orange flames and silvery coolant burns; one shorter but no less brawny, flexing his blue fists where they rest against the back-flipped edge of his trenchcoat. 

Uh-oh. The arrow’s out. That’s… not a good sign. Kraglin pales. 

This entire plan resides on Yondu keeping his cool while in close proximity to Dagada. Knowing Dagada – and moreso, knowing Yondu – Kraglin’s starting to wonder if that might be too much to ask. 

“I think,” he says, as Lizard Guy hustles to stand by his side, “that I mighta made a mistake.” 

They’re talking, voices low and quiet. Hraxian hearing’s better than most, but Kraglin still needs to crane to hear – 

“I killed the old hag,” Dagada whispers, using the extra inch he has on Yondu to loom. “Don’t think I won’t do the same to you.” 

Yondu gives no ground, sneering into Dagada’s face at close range. “You wanna play that game, Dags? I’ve gotta winning hand.” He pats the arrow at his hip; the crowds ooh. Like they’re standing in the bleachers of a Xandarian wrestling match – that whole tamed bread-and-circuses fare – rather than witnessing a potential cage-fight, without any cage in which the casualties might be contained. 

And dammit, but this is not how this was supposed to go. 

Kraglin shrinks behind Lizard Guy’s shoulder. He spots Morlug and Isla across the row; Isla grimaces; Morlug shakes her head as if she actually suspects he’s dumb enough to fling himself between them and ask why they can’t all just get along. Kraglin surveys the angle of Dagada’s thick neck, the pulse point jumping under Yondu’s jaw, and banishes any thoughts that might have been edging in such a direction. Oh hell no. He is _not_ wading in there. Yeah, yeah, he’s the one who’d staged this whole trainwreck – but he sure as heck ain’t gonna referee. 

Then, of course, Dagada spots him. He beckons him forwards. Kraglin pretends not to see – difficult, when the captain’s the focal point of every Ravager in the room. Lizard Guy prods him. 

“Oi, captain’s wanting you.” He sounds disturbingly gleeful. “The fuck’ve you got yourself messed up in this time?” 

Kraglin wishes he had an answer. 

“Obfonteri,” says Dagada. “Here.” Kraglin’s world narrows to the space indicated by Dagada’s outstretched finger. It’s a square foot of floorspace, one corner tinged off-red by the congealing remnants of one of Shorro’s infamous puddings. He rubs sweating palms over his ribbed jacketfront, and steps forwards. Yondu glowers at him the whole way. 

“Thought you said this was gonna work.” 

Dagada blinks. Then turns on Kraglin slowly. “Really? That’s interesting.” 

“Interesting,” Yondu repeats flatly, as Kraglin quails under Dagada’s stare. Yondu’s arms are crossed over his chest, weight rested on his unbraced leg. He looks as unamused as it is possible to be without an arrow sticking out of somebody’s back. Swallowing, Kraglin can’t help but run his fingers over the rip in his leather jacket breast pocket, which corresponds to the scar beneath. 

Dagada’s smile is a grey-yellow knife blade. “He said the same to me.” 

Aw hell. Because Kraglin doesn’t expect, not for one minute, that Yondu’s gonna trust him. Why should he? He doesn’t let Kraglin _kiss_ him, for fuck’s sake. Right now that stupid, hard-boiled mind of his, which fortifies at the slightest hint of softness, is probably informing him that Kraglin’s been playing him all along, that he’s Dagada’s double-agent, that he’s been manipulating and lying to him and using their not-a-relationship to worm into the captain’s good books… Never mind that he’s got it all topsy turvy. Never mind that Kraglin’s been putting his life on the line (as usual), and playing Dagada for him. 

As Yondu’s sharp red gaze snaps to him, stony as a cairn, Kraglin throws up his hands and storm out. It ain’t worth it. Let nature take his course. 

Or at least, that’s what he’s tempted to do. Somewhere in the depths of his mind – the notion’s thoroughly drowned by the pressure of the thousand eyes that have made him their target. Every Ravager in the room is watching him. Like he’s game. Like he’s meat. And if Dagada gives the order, if Yondu doesn’t stop him… That’s exactly what he’ll become. 

Kraglin latches onto Isla, praying for a lifeline. She turns her face to the side. But Morlug’s there. Morlug’s mouth is tight and bloodless and her fuschia skin blanches to pastel, but she’s there. Kraglin’s still looking at her, desperately clamping down on the anxiety shivering through his stomach (which is screaming for him to escape to a nice dark corner and hyperventilate until all this blows over) when Dagada twists at the waist to trace his stare. 

“Oh no.” His voice rumbles like disant thunder. Hairs prickle to attention along Kraglin’s forearms, static zinging in every nerve. “Oh no. Don’t tell me – don’t tell me you’re doing this for her.” 

Kraglin finds his vocal chords, somewhere in the vicinity of his bowels. He dredges them up long enough to croak – “I dunno what you’re talking about...” 

“Not _her_!” Dagada lunges. He’s so fast that Kraglin only catches a whisper of movement – but he can’t miss when the captain fastens a big scarred hand around his throat. They’re of a height, but Kraglin’s wire and twig where Dagada’s brick and mortar. The fingers constricting his trachea are tighter than steel coils. “Not. Her,” he repeats. Lifts his hand two inches, Kraglin with it. His heels skitter helplessly along the tiles. 

Kraglin chokes. Sputters spit, yanking Dagada’s wrist. The pressure increases. His head tips back and he coughs at the greying ceiling lights, feet kicking like a man in the noose. Somehow, his vision swims to Yondu. Kraglin’s eyes are watering too much to make out any expression: only a blue and red marionette, held rigid by petrified strings. 

“Stop it!” Morlug screams. Runs forwards to pound Dagada’s back. She might have a mean hook, but Dagada’s trunk is all muscle and about as fragile as the _Eclector_ ’s five-foot-thick hull slabs. Morlug causes less damage than a dud missile. If she had a chance to whale on his face she’d get further, but Isla grabs her collar and hauls her back before she can fit in more than one swing. She goes spitting and shrieking, clawing at the air. 

Kraglin ought to be grateful for Isla’s intervention. However, right now his need for air wins out over any gladness that Morlug’s not gonna die today. 

He stares harder at Yondu’s form, trying to solidify the wavering lines of his coat, his implant, the shape of his mouth. Which seems to be… pursed. Well, if he wants that kiss now, he’s picked a helluva time… 

_Phwee._

Everyone freezes. 

Isla. 

Morlug. 

Dagada – unfortunately still in the midst of wringing Kraglin’s throat. Everyone except Kraglin, who keeps up his hanged-man’s dance, and who finally loses track of Yondu as his eyes roll back into his skull. 

The next moment – decompression. Release. Oxygen. 

Kraglin crumples, a rag-doll of bones, and winds up on his hands and knees, gasping and choking over Dagada’s boots. He dredges up a messy wad of spit and sprays it across them, feeling the gesture from the bottom of his heart. Dagada’s snarl resounds louder than shuttle thrusters in a bell-jar. But there’s no slam of a steel toe-cap into his cheek, no splatter of a plasma round being emptied into his crown. Kraglin decides to make the most of the opportunity and scrambles rearwards, dragging air through a bruised and swelling windpipe – and sees Dagada nose-to-tip with a glowing arrow. 

Yondu waits until Kraglin’s out of kicking range. Then whistles the arrow back to his belt. “That were a stupid plan,” he tells him. Kraglin couldn’t agree more. 

“Shut up!” Dagada yells. An imperious finger vacillates between them. Settles on the greater threat; Yondu sneers at it, and if it were any closer, Kraglin doesn’t doubt that he’d bite it off. “Ravagers! Take him to the brig!” 

His confidence, increased exponentially as Yondu’s arrow returned to its sheathe, wavers as the crew exchange glances. Tension is tighter than a tripwire. Kraglin, if he wasn’t busy swallowing as much air as his lungs can take, would have held his breath. “Do it!” Dagada screams. Lips pulled back so far that his cheeks convulse, his furry teeth gnash like the symplegades. Kraglin can smell the crazy – although that might just be gum decay. 

For once, it appears that Yondu’s having a normal reaction to the threat of immanent attack. That’s a thousand times more terrifying than Dagada could ever hope to be. The Centaurian’s eyes skate to and fro along the assembled ranks of Ravagers, and Kraglin sees him considering – _Could I do it? Could I kill them all, if I had to?_

But what use is a captain without a crew? 

Slowly, Yondu raises his hands. 

The spell shatters. Dagada’s smirk regrows, crueller than ever. He restates his order – “Brig. Now.” And this time, Ravagers surge forth to obey. 

Lizard Guy’s among the group that steps out. So’s Isla. She gives Yondu an apologetic shrug, which he doesn’t return. Lizard Guy grabs one shoulder and Isla his arm. Between them, he’s frog-marched away. 

Kraglin watches until he’s around the corner. He presumes Yondu will drag on his captors’ arms, snap at their fingers, make it as difficult as possible to haul him along without actually resisting. But Yondu knows that’ll only get him trussed and carried, so he walks of his own accord with his head held high, braced leg stiff at the knee. If he does decide to be irritating, he has the grace to wait until they’re out of eye and earshot. He never looks back – but really, Kraglin doesn’t expect him too. 

His attention’s drawn by Morlug, whimpering as Dagada pinches her by one pink ear. “You two,” says the captain, standing over him. “Are in trouble.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Wuh woah.**
> 
>  
> 
> **Also - Islaaaaaaaaaa**
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	31. Chapter 31

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which things are awful.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Short chappie. Sorry. I'm not very well - I'll try to upload the next one tomorrow or the day after.**

Morlug’s lucky Dagada likes her.

Okay, okay. That’s a mite exaggerated. Dagada’s a creep to top creeps, and Morlug’s too awesome for a man ten times him – although Kraglin suspects that if such a fella ever propositioned her, she’d reject him too. 

But still. _She_ just gets locked in the engine rooms. Kraglin has to polish every instrument on the Bridge until Dagada can pick his tooth-gunk in them, and that’s while avoiding coming face-to-face with Yondu’s dim arrow, which holds pride of place above the captain’s console. Dagada’s commissioned a trophy stand. Every time Kraglin catches it in the corner of his vision his fingers itch to dash the holocrystals he’s shining on the ground. Or better yet – against Dagada’s skull. 

But he can’t. He mustn’t. Hasn’t he learnt by now, that he’ll only make things worse? No, this is his life now. Skulking. Grovelling. And, of course, wincing whenever his jacket rubs his back. 

Ten lashes. That’s what he’s been given – and that’s a damn light burden for one who’s technically orchestrated a mutiny. But admitting that was what it was would only undermine the brittle foundations of Dagada’s support base. So here they are. Impasse. Dagada’s treating this as if it were nothing more than a disagreement: a scuffle between underlings scarcely worthy of attention. If that’s the way he wants to play it, Kraglin ain’t gonna contradict him. 

Ten lashes. They’d hurt like a bitch, but Kraglin knows he could’ve come away a helluva lot worse. 

He has since faded to his usual status of demi-invisibility. He had done as soon as Dagada’s fingers ceased their throat-buckling squeeze, to be honest – but as for what he’s set in motion: revealing Dagada’s hairtrigger temper to the crew that the man’s supposed to guide? The effects are rippling all around him, fanning out like heat mirage from a thruster jet. 

It’s not overt. But Kraglin recognizes the signs, implicit though they are. Whether or not the Ravagers realize, there’s a new seed lodged in their subconscious, one that’s been fed enough water to germinate but not enough to grow. Oh, there’s no chance of a mutiny. Yondu’s defeat has confirmed it. The Ravager gang’s been around a long time, after all – started off as goons for some long dead would-be galactic conqueror; cut ties and became hire-out thugs; went private under Jora and took to the open stars. The pattern of command stretches back almost as far. Captain, First Mate, Captain Anew. 

But there’s an uncertainty there now, even if it’s not outright dissent. Conversations on the Bridge are muted and hand-hidden. They wither to silence when Dagada stomps past. And the strife isn’t contained to the command deck; the entire crew’s on edge. Half the galleon had witnessed Dagada and Yondu’s showdown, and there’s enough gossip flying around that by now the whole fleet has approximate knowledge of what had occurred. 

Kraglin listens to some of it, as he stands in line at the canteen and tries not to think about what Dagada might be doing to Yondu below decks. Most’s bull – story’s been warped by a thousand voices until it features raiding Hordesmen, plasma blasters bouncing from the roof plates, and an almighty punch-up between captain and ex-first mate. The victor varies according to the allegiance of those doing the telling. Kraglin’s not sure if he’s glad to hear Yondu’s name being mentioned the most. Sure, Dagada’s little screeching-come-strangling display hasn’t won him favors (Kraglin’s neck certainly isn’t a fan, given that it’s still wearing the results). But if Dagada realizes that, or so much as _suspects_ that the tide might be turning against him… 

It’s been summarily proven that the majority aren’t willing to go against the mandate of whoever sits in the captain’s chair, regardless of whether that person is in full possession of their sanity. However, the mind of a madman is not the most logical place. Dagada will boil this up into a grand conspiracy, and Kraglin and Yondu will go tumbling out the airlock. 

Kraglin scratches his aching throat and moves to take his bowl. Lizard Guy snatches it from under his nose. Kraglin’s left gazing at the kitchen hatch until a scaly shoulder barges him sideways, out of the queue, tripping over his own feet to keep his balance. 

He staggers along in mute acceptance. There’s no point fighting. No point protesting. He ain’t nobody now. Kraglin locates the end of the line, which files out past the L-block door. He heaves a sigh, and trudges along it with Lizard Guy’s guffaws raking at his ears. 

He wonders what they’re feeding Yondu. 

He wonders if they’re feeding him at all. 

The last man in queue grunts and shuffles forwards to indicate the space behind him. But Kraglin don’t have much of an appetite no more. He stares bleakly at the iron-forged tombstone of the L-dorm gate, and remembers a darkness pierced by red luminescence, the weight of Yondu’s forehead on his. 

He hasn’t talked to Isla, not since she led the way to the brig. Perhaps it’s time to start. 

________________________________________ 

“I dunno what you want me to say.” 

Isla’s sprawled in her favorite store bunker, a crate of moonshine painted to look like calcubes propped under her crossed boots. She very determinedly does not look at Kraglin. In fact, she pauses only to snarl out her words in between shoveling spoonfuls of today’s sloppy brown silage into her mouth, and feigns engrossment in the text scrawling over her wrist display. Kraglin squints at the backwards timestamp. It’s a starlog from three weeks ago. She’s not fooling anyone. 

He sighs. “I don’t blame you, y’know.” 

Not _entirely_ a lie. He gets why she’d done it, at least – which isn’t quite the same as forgiving, but might lie somewhere along the way. “Dagada’s captain. You do what the captain says. You ain’t never been on board with Yondu’s talk; not in the way Figs is. Or Varra was.” Isla’s expression remains artfully unperturbed. There is, perhaps, the faintest tremor at the mention of Varra’s name. Uninvited, Kraglin takes a seat on the box besides her. 

“He don’t blame you neither,” he says. “Yondu, I mean.” Chews his lip. Decides on honesty. “Uh, I don’t think he does, at least.” 

“Then he’s an idiot.” Isla scrapes the bottom of her bowl. Then in a startling flurry of silver-laden forearms, flings it to smack off the doorframe. The pewter rebounds with a crack. When it skitters to rest by Kraglin’s boots, he discovers it to be whole and the doorframe dented. What cutlery that survives on a Ravager ship is hefty by necessity – it’s survival of the fittest, and some of the bowls from Shorro’s pantry are practically antique, around since Jora’s glory-days. This one could probably be used as grapeshot, if ever the need arose. Which also makes it an excellent victim for Isla's frustrations. 

Kraglin stoops to pick it up. Tucks it into Isla’s clenching hands. Isla glares at it, underlip brushing her chin. Her piercings rub and squeak. She scopes the other side of the doorframe, readying her projectile for a second throw – but then the fight slumps out of her, and she places it with all due gentleness at her side. 

“His leg’s healing up nice, at least,” she says. Which isn’t much of a reassurance, considering how much else of Yondu there is for Dagada to hurt. Kraglin’s back twinges under the jacket. If he’d been whipped ten times… If the snap and crack and the smell of his blood still throbs hotly in his mind… What will Dagada have done to Yondu? 

But his leg’s okay. A fragment of comfort, but an anchor in a fathomless ocean nevertheless. Kraglin clings to it. “Any chance you could get me in –“ he hazards. Then cuts himself off at the dismal furrow of Isla’s brows. “No, no. Of course not. Sorry. Stupid question. When’s he gonna be out then? D’you know?” 

“End of the week,” Isla says to her bowl. That’s five more days. Kraglin’s throat bobs. 

It’ll be okay. Yondu’s a tough sonofabitch. And sure, now Jora’s gone there ain’t no one to reign Dagada in when it comes to discipline; and _sure_ , Yondu’d insulted him in front of the amassed crew. Add to that: judging by the conspicuous lack of murdering, Dagada’s got another plot on his backburner, no doubt something so mad and bad it’ll cinch his Yondu-and-Kraglin problem once and for all... Wait, wasn't he going somewhere positive with this train of thought? 

_Tough sonofabitch._ Yeah, that’s it. It doesn’t matter what Dagada throws at him, because Yondu’ll come up swinging. And Kraglin’ll be there by his side, kicking asses and taking names. 

_Yeah_ , he tells himself, pressing knuckles into his eyesockets and trying to believe it. _We’re gonna be fine._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Thoughts. Is Isla forgiven?**


	32. Chapter 32

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which things get worse.**

He’s barred from the engine rooms. When he tries to creep down during his lunch cycle – Dagada’s removed his rest hours, only allowing him off the Bridge for as long as it takes to fetch food and return – his palm thuds uselessly against the biolock. Everyone he asks to grant him access gives him a long-suffering look and barges him out the way. After the third rough shove and the fifth insult, Kraglin gives in.

_Hope ur okay_ , he sends to Morlug’s wrist-reader. He can’t think of anything else to say that won’t turn into a paragraph of apologies and sentimental, shamefully soft drivel. Even if Morlug could read at a pace of more than a couple of words per hour, she wouldn’t stick around to plow through that nonsense. He receives his reply that night cycle – a smiley face which says no less and no more than can be encompassed by the bleak black dots of its eyes. He ponders over answering – _Miss u? C u soon?_ – but decides against it, and clicks off his holodisplay before flipping on his stomach and burrowing under the pillow. 

Fuck this. 

Fuck everything. 

But especially fuck himself, for being a dumb enough shit to believe his plan would actually work. The hell is wrong with him? Is he really that desperate, that hungry for Yondu’s approval, that he’d jeopardize their safety for a whiff of it? 

Kraglin clutches the pillow to his face and noisily inhales. Stale fabric and limp stuffing. Not enough air. Perhaps if he lays here long enough, he’ll smother himself and make everyone’s lives easier. Dagada’ll stop hounding Morlug over whatever fling he perceives between them. Isla won’t feel as guilty. Yondu can get out the brig and he and Figs can plot in peace; maybe murder Dagada quietly on a non-descript offship mission a few years from now, then con Thrabba into naming Yondu second until he can serve him the same treatment. 

Aw fuck. That’d probably work, as well. 

Kraglin pushes his face up when the stuffiness gets too much to bear, gasping, and treats his pillow to resolute punch. Hell though. He’s not gonna flop about and take this. Kraglin ain’t no goddam bitch – he’s Kraglin Obfonteri. And he hates waiting for life to dole out its shit, not when he could be making some damn headway and wading through it. Nope. This is not going to keep him down. 

Morlug’ll be in her bunk now. She works the same shift as him, but sleeps in the overflow dorm allocated to those on their cycle who can’t be crammed into this one without them all risking suffocating in the night; the one behind the ordinance store on the floor above. He doesn’t dare comm her – not when Dagada might be monitoring the stream. Kraglin can picture him, insomnia-raw eyes flickering madly over the read-outs as he mutters to himself, all embryonic devotions and dedications and declarations of love. 

Okay. So maybe that’s a mild exaggeration. 

Whatever. They need a monster to fight. Kraglin spins Dagada into one; a hulking scar-clad phantom who coos over the dove of his fevered dreams. But said dove’s dorm is only on the next floor up. If Kraglin can make it there, blend in with the crowd… That train of thought shudders to a halt. 

Then what? Like Dagada won’t have restricted access to her quarters as well? It ain’t like Morlug’s gonna fuck nobody, whether or not they’re creepy obsessive Ravager captains, but Dagada’s one jealous a-hole and he’s probably rigged the lock to blow if Kraglin so much as breathes on it. Still. He ain’t gonna know unless he tries – and if he doesn’t try, he’ll never forgive himself. 

Kraglin slithers over the side of the bunk, dropping soundlessly to the floor. He doesn’t put on his boots until he reaches the door – wincing as something cold, liquid, and disturbingly mucus-like seeps through the tight fiber of his thermal socks. 

Once he’s out the door he laces them up as quickly as his tired fingers can manage – earning curious looks from passing Ravagers. But this late into his night cycle there’s few who’ll recognize him, whether or not they’re aware of the part he played in the whole canteen shindig. Kraglin lets them stare. Wrings the mulched remains of a Shorro-special – coulda been worse, he supposes, but not by much – out of his sock. 

Then he squares his shoulders, adjusts his jacket, and sets off to Morlug’s quarters at a confident swagger. Nothing to see here. Just another Ravager, going about his business. 

He’s perfected his dull-eyed glare when he spots a familiar figure standing above a ladder shaft in preparation for the descent. 

It’s Dagada. 

There’s no mistaking that saffron skin, silvered over with vitiligo where the coolant scars have yet to heal. Even if there was, there’s the circle of space around him, that meter of perfect stillness untouched by Ravager red. Kraglin’s stomach knots. He forces himself to keep walking. He’s coming up on Dagada from behind. No way to stop moving; he’ll only be pushed forwards by the barrier of crewmen flowing along this side of the corridor. No side alleys to slink off into either. Barging a retreat through the crowd will just draw attention to himself. It’s all he can do to slow his steps to a contemplative dither, as Dagada sinks bootfirst into the shaft. 

If he turns… 

Dagada, grasping the top rung, frowns at the prickle of a foreign gaze. He whips around – but by that time, Kraglin’s ducked into the path of a convenient Kamado woman, who scowls down her puggish nose as she tries to maneuver her bulk around him. He pretends to be searching for a scrub panel as Dagada shakes his head and vanishes into the chute. Huffing, the Kamado picks him up under the armpits, swings him round, and drops him to her not inconsiderable rear. 

“Little shitstains should learn t’stay out the way,” she rumbles. Kraglin bobs, mumbles an apology that he hopes sounds more sincere to her ears than it does to his, and counts the seconds until Dagada clears the shaft before scampering after him. 

Why’s the captain awake at this hour? There’s no alerts, no danger warnings popping up on his Bridge-link. No reason for him to be patrolling the deck, when their chronometers are clanking towards midnight. So what’s Dagada up to? 

Kraglin’s diaphragm lurches up his chest. Is he going to see Yondu? And what’s Kraglin going to do, if he is? 

Nothing, that’s what. 

Really, he should turn around: utilize this opportunity for a productive purpose, sneak into Morlug’s bunk to bitch about their new restrictions and play cards until morning… Kraglin shifts his weight on the hatch’s protruding rim. Looks at the light above, harsh and white, then the murk of the tunnel below. The hole appears oddly flat, the ladder rails shrinking in size rather than distance as if it’s been robbed of its extra dimension. Kraglin wonders if that’s supposed to be a warning, his tired eyes conspiring with the haggard vestiges of his common sense: _Danger! Insane captain – do not follow._

He nibbles his bottom lip. Thinks of whips and pain and Yondu’s broken leg. Plants his boot on the first creaking rung, and begins his descent. 

________________________________________ 

Dagada is… brooding. 

It’s the only word Kraglin can think of to describe it. He’s seen Yondu do this, occasionally – although his brooding tends towards the surly and is interspersed with grumbles about Jora’s third-rate artillery, and how it’s all well and good rupturing their bank for the odd souped-up swank piece of thief tech; but if you’ve got five out-of-date versions that’ll do the same trick for the same price, albeit a little slower, _don't it make more sense to equip five Ravagers t'go and pull enough jobs to pay for that snazzy new card-duplicator in the first place; tell Isla I’m right, Kraglin!_

No, Yondu’s brooding is directionless and unpredictable, a lash-out against whatever’s aggravating him on that day. But the atmosphere stewing around Dagada, as he bounds down another shaft and strides in the opposite direction to the brig – where the hell's he going, anyway? – is anything but. It’s pointed. Focused. And Kraglin doesn’t like it, not one bit. 

Dagada halts. Kraglin, who’s been matching his paces to minimize the echo, has to freeze halfway through a step and violently windmills his arms for balance. He catches himself on the wall. Then, dreading the snap of his designation – and the blast of a plasma pistol that will inevitably follow – peeks round the corner. Only to discover that Dagada’s attention lays elsewhere. 

They’ve stopped on the cusp of a populated corridor. A very familiar populated corridor. A familiar populated corridor, which dives straight into the _Eclector’s_ engines. Kraglin can hear them, even at this distance. A bassy gut-shaking thrum, more vibration than sound, ululating up through the soles of his boots. 

What’s Dagada want in there…? 

Dagada’s fiddling with something in his sleeve. Kraglin leans out from the cover of the corner strut, eyes straining. Is that… a wire, he sees? A thin golden octagon, spoked like a spiderweb, circuits wound in a tight black button at its center? 

Why, if he were glancing at it from the corner of his eye, he might think it was one of them ornamental pre-plasma sticky bombs from Yondu’s M-ship. 

Yondu’s M-ship, coded to allow only himself access. With a biolock that only the captain can override. Captain Dagada, who isn’t as dim-witted as Kraglin has been convincing himself, who wants Yondu disgraced in the eyes of the crew so that he’ll have a decent excuse to blast him into the aether, and who just so happens to bear the unique epithet of the _Detonator._

Shit. 

________________________________________ 

What can he do? What is there to do? He runs out waving his arms and screeching about a bomb? The crew won’t stop to search their captain before following his orders; they’ll fling Kraglin into the brig to molder alongside Yondu, and then they’ll all be fucked. Fuck, he’s gotta think; he’s gotta do something – 

Dagada nods to a gaggle of overall-clad Ravagers, their eyes buggish and insectoid behind their bottle-bottom goggles, who bob and flinch out of his way like a shoal around a shark. He fondles the explosive in his pocket – unfortunately, failing to set it off there and then, relieving himself of his organs and Kraglin of his worries in one foul burst. Eyes dark, he prowls beneath the heavy industrial hatch that denotes the engine block entrance. 

The great gate groans closed behind him. Kraglin, already knowing what’s going to happen, darts forwards and manages to slam into it just as the palm key flashes red. 

Locked. 

Kraglin’s ribs clasp his lungs. Fuck, there goes any possibility of picking the darn devices out of Dagada’s pocket. The captain’s gone – out of touch, out of reach, safely incarcerated behind three inches of rust-flecked iron and lead. And Kraglin… Kraglin had stood there, petrified, and let him. 

Engine-bound Ravagers pass to his left – perking, Kraglin makes to dart through the gates after them. But the biolock flares accusatory red, and the Ravagers form a leathery barricade, swooping down the hall and into the engine block with his pleas pealing off them like rain from greased coats. 

Foiled. And with Dagada moving further away with every passing second, into the galleon’s volatile core, his pockets weighty with antique explosives. Antique explosives that of course everyone’s going to know belong to Yondu, once they’ve patched enough of the ship to care about tweezering shrapnel from the walls – because who else but him even collects that crap anymore? And then, like bodies from an airlock, there it all goes. Yondu’s tentative support base. His hopes of attaining the captaincy. Kraglin’s last chance at survival – because in rigging Yondu as the primary suspect while Yondu’s still clapped in irons, Dagada’s going to need a suitable scapegoat to frame as accomplice. 

Kraglin clamps down on the panic before it has chance to fester. There has to be a solution. He refuses to give up, even if he has to batter down the door with Yondu’s stupid skrull bazooka… 

Wait. 

Dagada’s obsessed with keeping him from Morlug. Obsessed enough to remove him from engine detail, and sabotage his access to those quarters indefinitely. Who’s to say he’ll have been so vigilant with Yondu? 

The engine door remains shut, a solid portcullis of interlocking iron grids. Ignoring the sniggering Ravagers who’ve borne witness to his failed entrance, Kraglin backs away from it, mind turning cartwheels. 

The plan grows in fragments. _Free Yondu. Ambush Dagada. Take this fucker down._ It’s not smart and it’s far from complex. But right now, it’s all he’s got.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oh dear.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Confused? Scared? Wondering what the heck Dagada's thinking, and missing our favourite jolly blue grump? You'll know more come Sunday~**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Or Saturday. Perhaps.**


	33. Chapter 33

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin stages a jailbreak, and you find out why that ‘Rescue’ prompt-fic oneshot I wrote isn’t compatible with TRGTGL-verse.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Also – fellow Fury Road enthusiasts? You’re welcome.**

The brig's located towards the rear of the galleon: a honeycomb of cells dug vertically into the reinforced floor plating. Each is as deep as a ladder shaft. If you’re lucky, the one you’re hurled into might be a little wider in circumference. They’re hexagonal in shape – the more advanced have one wall that will unfold into a bed and another that’s dedicated to a rudimentary lavatory; the plumbing twists through the foundations like veins in a grungy red opal, feeding the matter converters that jostle with the gravity synthesizers for space on the galleon’s underside. But those cells are mostly kept at standby, for the rare upper-crust hostage who shrinks at pissing in a pot.

Every cubicle gets pressure wash blasted once their occupant has been released (or when the smell’s too dire, or when they’ve given up the ghost and died in their sleep). The rest of the place, from the crusty, rust-dripping information extraction equipment that lines the far wall to the slippery pathways between the holding areas, is grim and mildewed. Everything’s a little damp, a little sticky. There’s a pervading stink of decay. 

Creeping through the doors is a slow suicide – Kraglin expects to be jumped from every angle, guards scooping him up and dashing him dead on the filthy tiles. But there’s nothing. No raucous holler, no sudden smack of a truncheon introducing itself to the back of his skull. Apparently, Dagada’s confident in his ability to keep an eye on Kraglin during his day-cycle, and in the cell’s ability to keep Yondu confined. Given that Yondu’s _the_ goddam expert in breaking, entering, breaking some more and exiting, that does not bode well. 

Kraglin tiptoes across the pitted floor, trepidation like maggots under his skin. He peers into every cell, searching for a flash of familiar blue. 

“Sorry,” he mutters at the Nova-girl, who bounces gleefully to her feet when she spots the new face. “Not looking for you.” He walks on too rapidly to watch her smile fade. “Or you –“ Empty cell. “Or you, or you. Or you.” This to a hulking rhinoceros-faced Ravager, stinking of blood and stale piss, who stretches from one side of his prison to the other. He snorts and waves him on, not bothering to lift his head. 

The cells vary in size. But they’re all topped with a shimmery forcefield, permeable to those coded into the biolock. Dagada’ll be the only one to enter Yondu’s cell, and the only one who’ll climb out again afterwards. If Yondu butchered him while he was in there, he’d be signing his own death warrant. Kraglin breaks into a jog, and, after a testing toe reveals that the forcefields will take his weight, stops darting around the cells in favor of running over them. His boots leave swirling imprints: they fade like camera flashes on the retina. “Not you. Or you, or you…” 

Every second wasted is another addition to the interim in which Dagada can place his charges. How long will it take him to rig the engine block without anyone taking notice? He’s captain, of course. He can claim inspection rights and jerk a whole team out, and nobody’d think twice about it. 

And what about when he’s finished? He’ll get out of there; of course he will. Dagada might be zanier than a Calurnian who’d gotten into the catnip (after all, what sort of captain scuppers his own ship to discredit a rival he’s already had clapped in irons? That’s not cutting off your nose to spite your face; it’s sautéing your bollocks because your cock decided to get perky over nature documentaries.) But mad or otherwise, Dagada’s not suicidal. He’s not going down with his ship – in fact, Kraglin doubts (prays) that the damage will be anything more than superficial. To the _Eclector_ , at least. Those toiling in the heat of the galleon’s engines won’t be so lucky. 

So where will Dagada go, before he detonates? The Bridge, as far away from the explosions as he can get? Or here, to gloat? 

Kraglin catches a flicker of blue from a cage to the far right. He hops over, heart in his mouth – and finds a dull-eyed Kree woman, curled over her knees and naked as the day she’d been born. 

Kraglin swallows. Steps away. She doesn’t see him. 

Damn it. He’s running out of time. There’s only one thing for it. Crouching (as if that’ll help if guards burst in: he’s the only being above ground-level in the whole damn complex and he stands out as starkly as a chitauri at a church service) Kraglin shoots a furtive glance at the far-off doors, and cups his hands around his mouth. 

“Yondu?” 

Silence. Someone coughs, a wet rack of a sound. But when Kraglin bounds over the next cluster of cells to find the culprit, bootprints blazing gold and pink on the wobbling skeins, he finds a wizened Xandarian heaving phlegm into his liver-spotted fist. “Yondu!” Kraglin calls again, louder. “Yondu, where are ya? C’mon, work with me here!” He’s got to find him. He’s got to. 

“You’re looking for the Centaurian, Ravager?” A tired voice, from beneath his boots. 

Kraglin looks down. He’s standing over another Nova operative, this a man, his uniform rumpled and singed about the shoulders. He’s got a sharp, severe face and premature frown lines, and despite the ammonia-saturated smell of the place, he somehow manages to look dignified. 

Kraglin nods. The Corpsman’s eyes thin. “On my other side. I’m afraid he can’t do much talking.” 

“Thanks,” Kraglin mutters, and makes to leap over him. Then figures he owes the guy something – “What’s your name?” The Corpsman sniffs like he smells something unpleasant. Given the state of his cramped cubby, it’s probably himself. 

“Saal,” he says. Then, dryly – “pleasure to make your acquaintance, Ravager.” 

“Kraglin.” He clears his throat. “I, uh. Can’t promise we’ll let you outta here or nothing, when this is over. But we will take Dagada down.” 

Saal waves a hand. “Your pirate politics mean nothing to me. One captain or another; you’re all the same breed.” 

“Right…” Whoever this guy is, he’s worse at endearing himself to strangers than _Yondu_. Disinclined to keep his company further, Kraglin steps off the forcefield. His footprints fade to a dull golden glimmer, like fingerprints cooling on thermocromatic paint. “Later then, Saal.” 

Saal’s sneer follows him to Yondu’s cell. Kraglin drops to his knees at first glimpse of blue skin and red implant, and smacks flat-handed on the forcefield. It’s not a sound so much as a vibration, one which undulates through the cell’s mould-blackened walls. It’s effective though. Yondu raises his head – and, oh, that’s what Saal meant. 

Kraglin covers his mouth. 

Yondu’s glare dares him to comment. Kraglin tries not to. He really does. 

“Kinky,” he manages. 

Yondu boots the cell wall hard enough to make the whole damn complex shake. His hands are bound behind his back, elbows jammed out at odd angles to allow for the clunky Nova-issue gravicuffs. And while Kraglin’s seen his arrow, mounted like a fucking trophy above Dagada’s chair, there ain’t no way Yondu’s whistling for it – not with a muzzle strapped across his face like he’s some kinda rabid space-mutt. 

Yondu kicks the wall again. Kraglin doesn’t need to see his mouth – or have the threat of a radioactive arrow pulsing like a quasar in his peripherals – to know that he’s giving him his best death scowl. He wrestles his expression into one of somber sobriety. “Okay, okay. I ain’t laughing, sir. I swear…” Yondu huffs through his nose. Kraglin has to fight to keep his mouth from twitching. “Kinda suits you, y’know.” Another huff. More of a bull’s pre-charge snort. Kraglin backpedals, smothering his grin. “Right. Shutting up. Let’s get you out of there, huh?” 

Only the logistics of this is something he hasn’t quite had time to consider. Kraglin thumbs his chin, and takes an assessing step to the rear. Time to examine this situation with a little perspective. 

Alright. So. Yondu doesn’t look too injured – beyond the grid of blue-dripping stripes painted across his back. That’s something, at least. But there’s no way he’s fooling that forcefield. 

Kraglin racks his brains. Far as he can tell, Yondu’s in the smallest, meanest-style cell they boast – bare floors and no bunk, let alone any more…civilized facilitites. He’s sitting with his raw shoulderblades hovering inches off the wall, braced leg out straight and the other pulled up to his chest. From a distance – and yeah, ignoring the crude metal-and-leather gag – he could almost be relaxed. But his pants are soaked through. Water gathers in the creases that bunch around his brace. The walls are dripping, and he don’t smell overly obnoxious – Kraglin takes a deep breath – no more so than usual. Ergo, there’s gotta be a way to disable the forcefield enough to get a hosepipe in. And – well, that’s the beauty of being a skinny git. If one of them industrial-sized high pressure nozzles can fit, so can Kraglin. It’ll be a bit more of a squeeze for Yondu, but Kraglin figures he won’t have been eating much recently, so maybe, just maybe, if he holds his breath... 

Yondu kicks the wall again. The muzzle’s big and ugly, straps cutting into his cheeks and mouth stoppered with a black metal bit. He has to breathe heavily through his nose, and his nostrils flare as he glowers up at Kraglin, eyebrows pinched in in an obvious question. 

Oh. Right. Yeah, he’d probably like to know what’s going on. 

Kraglin feels around the lip of his cell, questing out the lock for the hose reel. “So. Nice to see you haven’t been, y’know, tortured or nothing.” He locates a pressable panel, and, ready to leap back at a moment’s notice, gives it a smart rap. Then breathes out as the hose unrolls from the ceiling and flops across the forcefield like a dead anaconda. The forcefield folds inwards, layering over itself tighter than the gossamer wings of a dragonfly. Kraglin wiggles his hand in the gap and prays it’ll be enough. “Alright. I’m gonna drop the hose – think you can climb up?” 

Saal’s laugh from the cell next door is more a curtailed scoff. “He’s been given Nova-issue cuffs. He’ll never –“ 

Yondu bends forwards, twists his wrists on their sides and neatly dislocates both his thumbs, before dashing the cuffs on the wall hard enough to cause a temporary circuitry fry. They fall off and clatter on the ground. Kraglin listens to Saal’s sputtering as Yondu pops the joints back in, and grins. He hauls the hose out to its full extent, then slips the nozzle through the gap and lowers it to Yondu’s level. 

“Ready, sir?” he asks. Above the muzzle, Yondu’s eyes are burning. He levers himself to his feet with one leg braced straight, grasps the end of the hose and nods. “Awesome. Let’s do this.” 

It takes a lot of graceless wriggling and a tense moment where Yondu’s brace gets lodged between hosepipe and forcefield – during which his knuckles clench pastel-blue and he snorts so fiercely through the mask that Kraglin doesn’t doubt he’d be gasping without it. But Yondu doesn’t give up. He squeezes his eyes shut, grabs Kraglin’s hands for extra leverage, and pulls. The brace screeches every inch of the way. Sparks scatter over Kraglin’s leathers, and there’s a drawn-out groan from Saal’s cell. 

“God, could you rescue him a little more quietly?” He’s ignored. Kraglin grits his teeth, and, at Yondu’s stone-jawed nod, yanks as hard as he can. 

There’s an infinite strain. And then, finally, a pop. 

Kraglin looks down. Yondu’s leg’s still attached. And he doesn’t think that that was the sound of a hip ball dislocating from its socket. That’s… something. Yondu collapses forwards and leans on Kraglin, just for a moment. His skin’s clammy and chilly from the damp, and when Kraglin wriggles out of his jacket and wraps it round his whipped-raw shoulders, he accepts it without complaint. 

That muzzle’s good for one thing, at least. 

Eventually, Yondu pulls back, Kraglin’s sleeves straining over his biceps, and gives him a nod. Thanks. Kraglin smiles. “C’mon,” he says, cranking the handle besides the pressure pad to winch the hose in a screeching retreat. “Let’s go finish this.” 

Yondu nods. He doesn’t make any attempt to lead the way though. Just stands there, slumped and stooped over himself to preserve his warmth. He shudders when the cell seals shut. 

Confident that no one can see them – no one except Saal, who’s unlikely to go spreading stories given his current predicament – Kraglin cups the back of his neck, thumbing the cool blue skin and the edge of a muzzle strap. After a quick check in Yondu’s eyes for permission, he presses their foreheads together. Yondu’s softer when he’s damp, skin like suede rather than dry leather, and Kraglin’s heat leaches from that square inch of contact. He shivers, feeling the movement tremble through Yondu, and holds him all the tighter. 

“Please tell me you weren’t lying when you said all them toy bombs in your M-ship were disarmed,” he says. Yondu’s poker-face is far too good, even at point-blank distance. Kraglin sighs. Releases him, reluctantly, hand slipping down to rest on his shoulder. The jacket is warmer than Yondu is. “Then we got us a problem.” 

The muzzle, unfortunately, does not seem to be buckled together, nor has it been fitted with any conceivable clasps for quick removal. Kraglin scowls at it for a full minute before realizing he’s wasting time. He unzips his coat – Yondu makes a muffled noise as it’s dragged across the whip-welts on his back, and Kraglin’s scars twinge in sympathy. His favorite knife’s in its usual place: tucked in the lining next to the pocket with the lube tube in (which Kraglin’s not thinking about, dammit; yes it’s been a while, but now really isn’t the time). Yondu holds perfectly still while he retrieves it. Kraglin’s knuckles brush his chest, kneading the thick blue pectoral, and by the time he’s located the hilt, Yondu’s gaze has leached his throat of all moisture. 

Kraglin coughs, awkward, and holds the knife out handle-first. “Think you can cut them straps while we run?” 

Or walk, as the case may be. 

Yondu’s limping as fast as he can, sawing at the strap as he goes. But he’s resting his weight on the splinted limb as little as possible. Kraglin prays they haven’t reversed all of Doc’s efforts – then reassesses, and prays that they both live long enough to suffer through the four-armed man’s medical lecture on the proper and improper usage of leg braces. 

Damn though. What’s this muzzle made of? Perhaps he should’ve given Yondu his file instead – he might make better progress grinding through the metal than slicing the strap, which is some sort of reinforced ply-plastic the grain of which slips over the knifeblade before any pressure can be applied. By the time they reach the end of the brig, ignoring the wails and pleas of those they’re leaving behind – and the sarcastic bid of adieu from Saal – Yondu’s no closer to freedom than he had been when he started. He grunts and growls under the bit, yanking on the straps in mute frustration. The knife slips; nicks his ear. Kraglin decides it’s time to relieve him of it before he does himself real damage. Yondu, from his muffled snarl, disagrees. 

“Sorry, sir.” Kraglin dodges the open-pawed smack as he grapples with his knife-hand. “This ain’t gonna work, not while we’re moving. We’ll get it off when we reach the Bridge. Where your arrow is, yeah?” 

Yondu considers. Then nods, and relinquishes the prize so suddenly that Kraglin almost stumbles backwards. Shaking his head, Kraglin slots it into the spare place on his belt, and wipes the drizzle of blue blood off the tip. He has to jog to catch up with the lopsided figure limping ferociously for the lift.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So I oughta cut my writing hours seriously during term. But seeing as I just started filling a thing on Guardiankink (another one), I’m probably not going to go entirely dead in this fandom, even if all my contributions after this fic are stress-relief porn. :sweats:**
> 
>  
> 
> **I won’t be gone completely!**
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	34. Chapter 34

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which there is a rather tense journey, and a Ravager nominates himself for the Darwin Awards. ******

The walk to the bridge is a long Green Mile. Ravagers twist to follow them, their eyes like magnetic space mines drawn to the hull of a passing cruiser. Conscious of the gazes, Kraglin slopes after Yondu, rubbing his sweater over pimpling chilly arms. Most direct route to the Bridge is also the most crowded, and while it might be the end of his night cycle it’s the middle of Yondu’s day. They’re gonna be recognized. It’s inevitable.

“Uh, ain’t you supposed to be -?” one Ravager lass begins: some sort of amphibian-species with a mouth too wide for her face. Yondu cuts her off with an ominous rumble, and keeps walking. 

“Sorry,” Kraglin says to the girl. “Just got released, y’know? We don’t want no bother–“ 

Up the corridor, another Ravager makes to grab Yondu’s arm. “Hey, Udonta, good to see ya! And nice facepiece –“ 

Yondu kicks him in the balls. 

Ouch. 

There’s a collective wince, from Kraglin as well as their audience. Everyone, bar himself and the Yondu’s victim (who’s busy devolving into a fetus) takes a step to the rear. Kraglin pauses by the wheezing Ravager. Mutters another wholly ineffectual “sorry,” and hurries on. 

They take the lift to top deck in silence – bar the nervous tap of Kraglin’s foot. The chain that’s regurgitating their cage up the shaft’s long red throat rattles, warningly. So does Yondu. 

Kraglin settles into a sheepish at-ease, hands pinching each other behind his back to prevent himself from picking holes in his sleeves. His jacket’s loose on him but snug on Yondu: even after a week’s worth of starvation-enforced dieting and mandatory cold showers, the Centaurian’s retained his build. The bastard. Must be an alien thing. 

Yondu himself stares at the swooping pipework and the thread-like lodes of rust that pass as the lift clunks steadily upwards. It’s like moving through a dormant volcano, seated on a magma plug. The pressure expounds with every groan of the cagelift’s pulleys, and Kraglin doesn’t doubt that the eruption, when it occurs, will be explosive. Yondu’s glare doesn’t catch on any one rivet. It never falters: not even when they creak past an open corridor and thirty more Ravagers turn to gawk. Someone’s called for the lift on the next floor – but when they, fresh from their showerblock and squinting round a yawn, make to yank open the wire concertina door, Yondu wards them off with a throaty hiss. His red eyes flare lava-like in the gloom. 

The Ravager stands frozen, hand petrified mid reach. Kraglin presses the button to keep them moving. 

Oh yeah. This is gonna be fucking _pyroclastic._

The Bridge floor is dim and crowded. Kraglin and Yondu have to wade through the support staff, who assist the skeleton nav team while the Captain’s taking downtime. They fend off questions and prodding hands with equal ferocity – in Yondu’s case at least. Kraglin just repeats his story about how Yondu’s fresh out on bail and eager for blood, and that it’s in everyone’s best interests to stay out of boot-to-balls range. It’s held up so far, and Yondu’s more than happy to make good on the threat if anyone dares challenge him. 

This high in the galleon, the blare of the engines is less an underfoot thunder, more a distant hum. It’s a carpet of mechanical harmonics which lays over the eardrums and lulls them to numbness, a soporific bass line of solar energy being converted into thrust. Usually, it’s white noise: subsumed beneath the myriad other, more immediate Ravager-sounds – someone hailing him on his comm, or barging past his shoulder, or tripping over his scrub bucket and hurling abuse and whatever melee weaponry is close to hand in retaliation. But today Kraglin is hyperaware. Each tonal shift, every pop and stutter as the navs realign the rod shafts and the fission combustion pods adjust their output to match, is a new weight added to the smothering pressure on his brain. 

He’s waiting for the bomb to go off, he realizes. For the screams. For the chaos. 

And well, that’s just bullshit. He ain’t gonna sit back and let this happen. 

Ahead, Yondu bodily hoists a Ravager who cleared the gangway too slow, and hurls him against the nearest airlock. Kraglin’s determination suffuses through his chest. If Dagada thinks he can get away with blowing up their home, he deserves everything he’s gonna get. 

________________________________________ 

_A-R-R-O-W,_ signs Yondu at the nearest recruit, the moment they’re through the Bridge doors. (Kraglin’s ban has been revoked for scrubbing purposes. Even if it hadn’t been, there’s an ample supply of Ravagers too terrified of Yondu to tell him no; if any had refused to grant them access, Kraglin doesn’t doubt that their handprints would’ve found their way onto the biolock with or without the accompanying body.) The rookie’s on stocking duty, judging from the supplies page open on her pad. When faced with a fierce blue stranger, veins pulsing purple about the temples and flashing incomprehensible fingershapes in her face as if challenging her to a match of high-stakes shadow-charades, she squeaks, sputters, and reaches for her blaster. 

Yondu dissuades her with an elbow to the solar plexus. _F-U-C-K-I-N-G--U-S-E-L-_ he starts to sign. Then catches sight of his arrow. Levitating above Dagada’s hand console, in a gravimetric field of the type game hunters use to display their trophies. 

The Bridge crew are a tableau of wax dolls, the only moving parts their eyes. These swivel to observe Yondu as he stomps to the throne, brace clacking, and disables the field before yanking the arrow clean out the air. It’s difficult to finger spell while holding a foot-long spike of yaka, but Yondu manages: _G-O-N-N-A--K-I-L-L--T-H-A-T--A--H-O-L-E._

Kraglin doesn’t doubt it for one second. “Y’might wanna put her on autopilot,” he tells the Navs, nodding at the holofeed. “And get as far away from here as you can.” Then reconsiders. “But not down to the engines. Going down to the engines would be a real bad idea.” There’s a coordinated scuttle for the exit. Kraglin’s not sure how many of the Bridge crew take his warning seriously – but he sure hopes some of ‘em make it, otherwise he and Isla are going to be on double shifts for the next millennium. 

Yondu waits until they’re alone. Then he knocks open a hidden panel on the arm of the captain’s chair, revealing a fold-out stash of painkillers. Jora’s, Kraglin reckons. The first needle’s emptied into his arm without ceremony, empty casing jangling to rest by his boots. Yondu scarcely waits to drain the second before setting his arrow sideways across his lap and restarting his battle with the muzzle, yanking the straps with a determination that’s as demented as it’s fruitless. Kraglin watches his increasingly frustrated endeavors until it becomes apparent Yondu’s more likely to wear the muzzle through his skull than give up. Then he unpins his belt. 

Yondu stops. He lifts his head, and gives Kraglin a look that needs no translation. Kraglin rolls his eyes. “Gettin' my file; don’t get excited.” 

He shoves his pants down to his knees, mildly self-conscious. The flutter of lights across the consoles highlights every hair in sharp relief. His scrawny thighs are white from lack of sunlight, pallid as ghostfish dredged up from an oceanic trench. 

Kraglin spares a moment to check Yondu’s reaction as he unhooks the file. It’s possible he’s leering – but without mobility in the lower half of his face, it’s hard to tell. Kraglin wouldn’t bet on it. He’s hardly the most attractive specimen on board (even if, unlike most Ravagers, he’s still got all his teeth); and, as usual, this is hardly the time. He resets his pants as quickly as he can, fumbling the buckle. Then – 

_D-O-N-T--L-E-T--M-E--R-U-S-H--Y-O-U._

Kraglin sniggers. “D’you think we could… In the captain’s chair…?” 

Yondu’s eyes crinkle at the edges, but there’s something sober in the angle of his brows, even as he shapes his hands to the tonal-angle that Dixie claims implies flirtation. _M-A-Y-B-E--W-H-E-N--I-T-S--M-I-N-E._

Kraglin fastens the belt. He tosses Yondu the file, and saunters over to assess the Nav controls. Just to make sure those idiots ain’t set them up to zoom through the core of the nearest supergiant. Not to hide a smile. Definitely not. 

The screeching saw of the file over the metal clip that fastens the muzzle straps together is oddly soothing; something to focus on besides the tenuous boom of the engines. Kraglin rests his eyelids, leaning on the signals dashboard with space looming out from the massive observation window. A nebula hangs in the upper right hand corner: gauzy diaphanous curtains of stardust. It’s pink and yellow, like the warm haze of pollution over a Hraxian sunset, and Kraglin feels for the first time in a long time that he’s at peace. 

It is, of course, an illusion. One that’s shattered as Dagada bursts through the Bridge gate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Short lil chappie today! It felt too clunky when paired with the next one - which, as you may have guessed, is gonna be intense... Next one'll (hopefully) be up at some point tomorrow, because I know how much you guys love cliffhangers. ;)**


	35. Chapter 35

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which there is much actioning, and Dagada goes full-on expositionary movie villain.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Next chappie will have to wait until Friday, unfortunately! Hope you can all survive until then. ;)**

It takes the captain a moment to absorb the scene before him. Kraglin uses that moment to start as if he’s licked his finger and stuck it in an M-ship jump-socket. Yondu uses it to recline on Dagada’s chair, arrow tucked by his thigh and file sticking out of the muzzle mechanism like a radio antennae. He makes a show of getting comfortable.

“Udonta,” Dagada snarls. Then his gaze tracks across to Kraglin. “And Obfonteri.” Kraglin’s fingers brush the knife lashed to the inside of his left wrist. If Dagada makes one move for his blasters… 

But after an endless pause, Dagada’s expression twists to pleasant. Dangerously so. “How nice of you to join us. Congratulations, Udonta. On breaking out of the brig, and successfully incriminating yourself in the process. That hairy pet of yours too.” His smirk contracts. “Or perhaps, your accomplice.” Yep, accomplice. Kraglin called it. 

“Dagada,” he says, voice low. “This’s a dumb idea.” 

“You should know,” says Dagada. “You’re the master of those.” When Kraglin shifts his weight, knife grip warming to his palm, the captain removes a small black box from his pocket. A small black box with a golden clicker, matching the tarnished render on Yondu’s antique sticky-bombs. Detonator. “Ah.” Dagada’s smile is glacial, yet somehow entirely deranged. “You know what this is. You aren’t a complete imbecile then.” 

Kraglin, frozen at the sight, forces himself into slow animation, drawing an overdue breath. “Naw, I’d reckon that title’s reserved for the captain who’s about to blow up half his damn ship. Seriously, what the hell?” 

Dagada shows off every fur-laden tooth. “Oh, a sacrifice well worth it. If you want someone to blame, blame him. Everyone else will.” 

Yondu, who had been making the most of the distraction to subtly scrape at the muzzle, is caught mid-act; he doesn’t bother to play innocent, but meets Dagada’s smirk with a vehement glare and files harder. Kraglin gives the half-sawn link a quick analysis. Not long now. If he can keep Dagada talking – 

“Ain’t his fault that he’s more popular with the crew! Ever think that if you want folks to stop thinking you’re a loon, you oughta quit acting like one?” 

Yondu nods at him as Dagada’s gaze is diverted. But Kraglin’s attention is rather more taken up with the detonator, being shaken in Dagada’s canary fist. “I am not insane!” 

“Uh, think y’could be careful –“ 

“You know nothing! You know nothing of what it’s like, neither of you – I’d wanted the captaincy for so long, I’d worked for it, and when I finally got it, Udonta almost took it all away again! Like he always does!” 

“Seriously, I don’t think you oughta be shaking that around…” 

“It’s _my_ rightful position! Jora named me first mate, and she died, which makes me captain! _Me!_ Why can't you see that?” 

“You killed Jora,” Kraglin reminds him, creeping forwards a pace. Dagada terminates his advance with an incensed wave of the detonator that almost sends it flying from his hands – retaining his grip at the last second, to Kraglin’s disappointment. 

“Oh yes, yes. I killed Jora. Fed the old bat her favorite poison – do you know how long that took to organize? That flask never left her person – I had to apply the damn stuff around the rim after she offered me a drink, and it was only because her fucking eyesight was failing that she didn’t notice… Even then I was almost too late – Udonta was about to be promoted again, shoving me onto the backburner as usual!” 

Yondu’s mouth is still full of metal. But he’s snarling. Kraglin’s sure of it. He clears his throat and holds up his hands, knife dragging deadweight on the lining of his sleeve. 

“Sounds rough, buddy. Think you could put the detonator down –“ 

“Rough? You have no idea!” Dagada’s shout has Kraglin’s neck hair prickling. “All my life, ever since I joined, she has always, _always_ put him ahead of me!” He points at Yondu over his shoulder. But Kraglin’s pupils are pinned to the detonator as it rattles in the loose cage behind middle, ring and pinky. “And why? Why? When I was her real son!” 

Well. That’s… unexpected. Although, in hindsight, it shouldn’t be. Kraglin’s in-pinched eyebrows are all the cue Dagada needs: “Oh, I knew it! Even if she’d never admit it – never acknowledge me as her own. Why else would she send me to that Nova school? She tried to keep me out of the way, away from this life! As if she could!” 

His speech is accented by the tremble of his thick yellow fingers, which sandwich the detonator securely between them (dammit). It sounds more like he’s talking to himself than dictating to Kraglin. Or perhaps he’s projecting at someone else, someone turning rigid revolutions through a bleak grey asteroid field, lightyears upon lightyears away. “I thought that if I joined up, if I fought besides her, she’d see I was capable. A deserving heir. When she made me First Mate, I thought she’d finally realized – but it was just to punish Udonta, wasn’t it? Nothing to do with me or my accomplishments at all.” A deprecating laugh. “Of course. All she had eyes for – all she ever had eyes for – was him.” 

Yondu’s watching with frosty eyes. There’d be no time to pity the Xandarian, even if Kraglin had the heart to – as if Dagada deserves sympathy for poisoning his ma. But he nods along regardless, feigning listening. Gotta keep him talking, gotta give Yondu time… 

Dagada, thankfully, is unlikely to be deterred mid-spiel. “Some brat she bought off the badoon!” His voice raises, becomes orotund, spit flecking his goatee. “Just because he can do all his whistling and his fancy tricks, she thought he was better? He’s a savage!” 

Oh dear. 

Yondu flings the file away. 

It bounces off the windscreen, chipping itself rather than the glass, as Yondu lurches to his feet. Kraglin’s stomach churns as Dagada spins to face him – How to get his attention back? How to convince Yondu not to go postal before he can squeeze out a goddam whistle? How? How? 

The captain treats Yondu to a zany grin, swaggering towards him with his arms outstretched. “Come on, Yondu. You really think you deserve to be captain? Don’t you remember that lesson Jora taught us? How it ended for you?” A cackle that wavers between fury and hysteria. “Jora should have left you in your cage, _one-two-two-one-three!_ ” 

Kraglin… has no idea what that means. But he’s certain, absolutely, positively so, that Dagada could not have picked a worse sore-point to prod. 

Yondu’s anger usually blazes as bright and deadly as the radiation trail of his arrow. But at that number it calcifies, fossilizes, freezing into a comet’s icy heart. He places the arrow, with all due delicacy, on Dagada’s seat. Then straightens his shoulders, and beckons the man forwards. 

The man who’s still gripping the detonator like it’s the galaxy’s most satisfyingly incendiary stressball. And damn it, but if Yondu plans on tackling him for it, he’s as likely to liberate the damn thing as he is to set it off. Kraglin considers a valiant (and likely suicidal) intervention, as Dagada approaches and Yondu glowers from under his heavy brows. Thankfully, the heavens intercede and he’s prevented by the booming toll of his wristpiece. 

_Morning Shift,_ reads the holographic lettering, projecting a good foot into the air. _Report To Scrub Station: Bridge._

Well, at least he doesn’t have to worry about skipping work. Kraglin glances up, subject of both Yondu and Dagada’s stares. He clicks the watch to silent; the foghorn blare of his alarm snaps off in a static spurt. 

“Sorry,” he says. 

Yondu, pragmatic as ever, takes note of Dagada’s distraction and sweeps his legs out from under him. 

The captain goes down hard – but not before grappling Yondu’s braced knee and yanking him down too. Yondu aims to crash it into his jaw. Luckily for Dagada’s teeth (not that they won’t be dropping out in a few years anyway, with the way that he’s going) and Yondu’s fractured shin, he misses. Kraglin, care only for the detonator, winces – then slowly reopens his eyes when there’s no explosion. 

He’s in time to watch Dagada barge Yondu off with his shoulder. The big Xandarian rights himself, then dives back into the fray the moment Yondu, off-balance and teetering on his splinted leg, crashes against the console. Dagada, jaw bulging, deals two devastating kicks in close succession, pressing his advantage. Yondu blocks the first with a sturdy forearm. By the time Dagada’s built momentum for his second Yondu’s recovered enough to dodge. He throws himself belly-first on the floor. Dagada’s boot goes ankle-deep through the dash’s front panel. 

Sparks burst. They fizzle off Yondu’s coat. Circuitry coughs electrical smoke, and lightning crackles over Dagada’s skin, snapping between his twitching fingertips. His face spasms and the tendons in his fists pull tight – the detonator bends, but doesn’t engage. 

Kraglin prays that’s it: that it’ll be over, that Dagada will stand for a spare second before keeling heavily onto his face. But Dagada yanks out his boot and shakes himself off, no worse for wear, steam rising from the ridged stitching on his sleeveless jacket. 

Fuck. 

_C-O-M-M--E-N-G-I-N-E-S,_ Yondu’s busy ordering Kraglin, fighting to regain his footing with his brace-bound knee. Dagada looms up behind him. Kraglin flings the knife, but it rebounds off the window. He can’t send a second – Dagada’s too close, forearm sandwiched over Yondu’s throat, dragging his muzzled head back and hoisting him off the ground. 

Double fuck. 

Kraglin dithers – but Yondu’s motioning for him to go. And honestly, it’d kinda be an insult to insinuate that he can’t give Dagada a damn good run for his money, whistle or no. He makes for the comms. Dagada plots his path and swears, shoving Yondu away and barreling after Kraglin. But Yondu, wheezing through the muzzle’s metal plates, hooks their ankles together and sends them both crashing. They roll, the thumps of skull, boot and brace indeterminable. 

Kraglin can’t watch as they thud off the bottom of the ramp, clawing and swinging at one another. But from Dagada’s cough, Yondu’s gotten in at least one solid punch. Kraglin focuses on the blinking array in front of him. _Engine rooms… Engine rooms…_ He activates his hologram, aligning it to the console read-outs and scanning the snippets of data that reel forth. Bridge. Canteen. Dorm blocks A-Z and beyond – there! 

He stabs the button with his thumb. Grabs the wireless mic and darts to avoid Dagada’s lunge. Yondu’s plastered to his back, hanging on with arms and legs. The steel brackets of his brace dig into Dagada’s hip. He’s a furious blue limpet; with his weight dragging on his torso Dagada’s clumsy with top-heaviness, his punch is easily dodged, and Kraglin dances to the relative safety of the captain’s plinth. 

And realizes he has no idea what to say. 

How does one convey the urgency of this situation? What could possibly be adequate; what could incite an entire squadron to leave their work stations at a moment’s notice? 

Kraglin clears his throat. “Engine crew! Y’all need to evacuate! Now!” Okay. Good start. But now what? Crew might not like Dagada much, but they ain’t gonna believe that he’d rig his own damn prize galleon. Ravager fleet’s hardly the most up-to-date in the aether, but the _Eclector_ ’s swankest of the whole sorry lot. He needs something else, anything – 

Yondu rolls his eyes and stops throttling Dagada long enough to sign _H-O-_ , before he’s heaved over one flame-tattooed shoulder and deposited hard on his back. 

…Something like that. 

“The Horde!” Kraglin yells. Dagada, spittle, froth and blood flecking his chin in equal measure, steps over Yondu’s winded body – being sure to plant a firm boot on his stomach as he goes – and stalks towards him. “The Horde’ve planted sticky bombs, y’all need to get out of there, as far as possible; go, go, go!” 

Dagada pauses, halfway up the ramp. Twitching against the urge to bolt, Kraglin drops the microphone on the nearest console and stays as still as if he’s staring down a bilgesnipe. Only this time, it’s not just his life at stake. It’s Morlug’s. It’s Figs’. It’s everyone in the goddam engine room. Each life dangles from a spindly thread, one end of which is lassoed around the bombs’ trigger. 

Dagada’s smile is death personified. “You’re too late,” he tells Kraglin, and presses it. 

________________________________________ 

Or he would. If the damn thing was still in his hands. 

Yondu sits, brushing himself off, and tucks the detonator into the lining of his borrowed jacket. The angle of his eyes suggests a grin under the muzzle, and a damn big one. Most likely of the shit-eating variety. Kraglin could kiss him there and then, big blue jackass that he is. 

Then his comm crackles to life. 

“Kraglin!” Morlug, high and tight-throated with panic. “Kraglin, my palm key’s deactivated! I’m stuck in the engines – Kraglin, are you there?” 

The entire spectrum of emotion is compressed onto Dagada's face in a single, mutable second. When his expression settles, it's on rage. “If I can’t have her,” he seethes, turning on Yondu – whose eyes widen and who backpedals at a clumsy crawl – “No one can.” 

_G-E-T--G-I-R-L_ , Yondu signs. Then scrambles to his feet and runs. Dagada roars, louder than a bellowing bilgesnipe, and follows. The Bridge door slams behind him, and Kraglin sags against the back of the captain’s chair. Then straightens. Remembers that Yondu’s got one leg strapped into a cylinder of metal piping and hasn’t been fed in recent memory, and that with Dagada at peak fitness, it’s only a matter of time. 

“Morlug,” he says, and breaks into a sprint.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Cookies to anyone who gets the AtLA reference. If you want a hint about that number, try saying it out loud~**


	36. Chapter 36

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which there is a hoedown throwdown, Kraglin runs, and you can never find an airlock when you need one.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So I was less busy than I thought, and managed to get this chappie ready to upload a day early! I thought you guys might appreciate it. Then I remembered what happens. Hoo boy.**

“Stop him!”

Yondu hurls the first Ravager out of his way, brace skidding. He pivots on his good leg, brutally graceless, and slams the burly metal cage into the next one’s belly. After that, no one dares try. 

Red-coated men and women, creatures of indeterminate species and gender, all scatter as he shambles as fast as his splinted knee will allow, dodging off the main strip of corridor between Bridge and lift to worm into the galleon’s convoluted tunnel network. Dagada is perpetually closing. His steps echo from the ceiling and walls, an omnipresent specter whose distance is indeterminable by sound. Yondu can’t afford to look back though. Not now. And so he prepares himself for the inevitable grab at his collar, or the boot in his back, and he grinds his jaw around the muzzle’s thick metal bit, and he runs. 

A trap door yawns ahead. Yondu doesn’t give himself time to consider. Just jumps. Overrides his jarred hip socket with gritted teeth – thank fuck for painkillers – and an internal rendition of Doc’s customary lecture on how not to rehabilitate a broken limb. Staggers on – and hears Dagada hit the bottom of the chute not fifteen steps behind. 

Aw, fuck. He ain’t got a prayer. 

Somehow – he doesn’t know how, but he’ll figure it out – this is all Kraglin’s fault. 

________________________________________ 

Dagada’s coattails are vanishing into the boggling crowd of Ravagers when Kraglin bursts out the door. He spares a glance to ensure that his crewmates are suitably distracted. Then makes for the engine room. 

With his gangly build, a sprint is more of a controlled flail – anyone tempted to snatch him risks an elbow to the nose. Over the comm, Morlug heaves ragged pants. The beat of her fists on the door is hypnotic, so fast and hard that Kraglin’s heart revs to match. He forces himself faster. Jumps down a level and skids past the crawlways – that route’s direct but a squeeze; too slow, too slow – and flaps back and forth in an elongated second of indecision before diving for the corridor that plunges into the engine rooms at a steep angle. 

Walking down it is an exercise in balance, infinitely exacerbated by every millimeter of grip that’s worn off your shoes. Kraglin teeters on the precipice. He takes note of the Ravagers below: a scattergraph of worn red coats. Then he tilts onto the ramp, and runs. 

It takes all of five steps for Kraglin’s legs to overtake him. He sprints on momentum, feet barely catching him before he’s propelled past by gravity’s relentless weight. 

Dry air sandwiches his cheeks back. Kraglin bawls into it – “Outta my way!” Ravagers leap for the walls. Stragglers send him cusses or flipped birds, as well as the occasional blunt projectile; but all miss their mark or go glancing off to tumble besides. They’re soon left behind. 

Kraglin pounds on. Harder. Faster. The tunnel bottoms out ahead; flat ground looms like a vertical wall. Kraglin bellyflops onto it and rolls, forcing himself back up, adrenaline drowning out the pain. 

“I’m comin', Morlug!” 

Yondu’d better find an airlock. And soon. 

________________________________________ 

Airlock… Airlock… 

…Airlock! 

Yondu screeches to a halt – quite literally; his brace carves a sizzling white welt into the scuffed floor plates. But Dagada’s breath’s practically steaming up his neck. There’s no way he’ll lug the door open before he’s caught. 

He repeats a word in Zatoan that he isn’t sure the meaning of, but which he assumes is offensive, given the angle his ear had been twisted to that time he’d repeated it in front of a village elder twenty-odd years back. Yeah, he loses another step of his headstart remembering it. But the clicks translate through the muzzle better than stupid, scratchy Xandarian-speech, so he figures it’s worth the wait. 

He squares his shoulders to the flickering red wash of the hallway ahead. Keep moving. That’s the goal. Give ‘em – Kraglin, Morlug, any other unlucky fucker who ain’t made it out of the engines – all the time he can. 

And find an airlock with a quick-release system, if he’s in luck. 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin hopes Yondu boots Dagada out the airlock, along with his stupid detonator. Preferably after castrating him. He also hopes that the explosives are sturdy enough to withstand vibrations both from the humming engines, and from Morlug’s fists: the tempo and dynamic of which raise in a hearty crescendo as the seconds tick on. She must’ve put a dent in that door by now. Damn, they’ll be hammering that out for _weeks_ when all this is over. Or perhaps they’ll leave it. Frame it in bronze – testimony to the late mad bad captain. Under their new bad-but-marginally-less-mad captain, if things turn out for the best. 

Of course, given the Centaurian’s current handicaps, Dagada could always kill Yondu and blow them sky high anyway. But Kragln’s trying not to think about that. 

Engine room’s ahead. The ramp delivers him into the heart of the _Eclector_ – where the majority of storage compartments and dorm blocks lay. Here there’s a warehouse for every brand of contraband under the galaxy’s thousand billion suns. Weapons from the skrull systems. Ore mined from Nova-locked Terran planets, loot from moons undergoing quarantine or satellites with destable nuclear cores that are awaiting annihilation. There’s the classics – Huffer, Jabber, Powder and Snort – then the gourmet stuff, narcotics he ain’t even heard of, let alone tried; and a hundred more besides. 

Five more levels. 

A hatch is hidden under a rabble of Ravagers, debating this latest fiasco from the safety of an industrial-grade blast-protected doorway. Kraglin barges them out the way without a care. He’s vanished into the pit before they can repay the favor. 

“Yondu,” he gasps into his comm. Keeps the other line open, each of Morlug’s sobbing exhalations a knifepoint twisting on a nerve. “Boss, you good?” 

________________________________________ 

“Mm-mm, mmf!” 

Supid fucking question. 

Yondu slaps the palmkey that opens the next network of interlocking halls. He listens for the slam. It’s a beat late – Dagada’s caught it before it could close. Dang. No way he’s walking away from this without a couple more nicks to the hull. Not long now before Dagada catches him – not long, but he’s gotta keep trying. 

Crawlspaces burrow through this area of the ship, turning it into a favorite stretch of floorway for punishment scrub duty, a handy place for illicit fuck-sessions, and a shortcut to the artillery unit. Perhaps if he makes it there, he can find a weapon? It won’t be yaka – but so long as it’s heavy and he can hit Dagada with it… 

However, the last thing he needs is to be cornered in a tight squeeze. Yondu snarls around the bit and staggers on. Fortunately, he’s been dashing around this damn ship since Jora’d acquired him. Unfortunately, so has Dagada; Yondu’s about as likely to lose him as he is to take a wrong turn and stumble out an airlock. So he puts all his effort into moving, nostrils flaring as his ligaments stress with every stride. 

Gotta keep going. 

Gotta keep – 

Dagada growls. That’s all the warning Yondu gets. 

The captain punches into his back. Yondu’s a skittle and Dagada’s a damn demolition ball. He’s slammed into the ground; his lip bursts over his capped canine, bit crunching broken teeth. The detonator skitters from his grasp. It jangles over the floor grills, a tinkling chime that’s deceptively light for something that can cause so much destruction. Yondu’s shoulder strains at the socket but his fingers close an inch from the circuitboard edge. 

“Oh no you don’t,” grinds the captain. 

Yondu tenses to throw a reverse headbutt. It’s effectively quashed when Dagada mashes his muzzled face against the floor. The captain crawls over his back, breath tart and heavy and kneepads brutalizing his kidneys. He reaches for the button – 

And Yondu steels himself, sucking blood out of his lip, and forces himself upright. 

Dagada surfs the buck like a trained bullrider. But an elbow to the sternum lurches him off-balance. Yondu cinches the fall with a jerk of his braced leg, whipping Dagada’s foot from under him. 

Dagada crashes onto his shoulderblades. He’s up immediately, launching himself at Yondu’s middle with a roar. The smack of a shoulder against his untensed gut aches like a bitch. But the crack of his implant on the wall is infinitely worse. 

“Mmf-“ 

“You will not win this,” Dagada snarls. “You will not!” 

A hand finds his throat. Starts to squeeze. Pinned by the neck, Yondu writhes and champs on his bit. The fingers squashing his pulsepoint are trembling with fury, but Dagada’s choking him with ruthless precision and he knows he ain’t got long. 

“You think you can outrun me?” Dagada asks. Wet flakes Yondu’s face, thick and white and foamy. “You think you can outsmart me?” He hews spit over his cheek. It dribbles under the straps encasing his busted mouth, and Dagada angles his hands until his thumbs dig direct on his windpipe. “You’re pathetic,” he sneers. “Captain? You’re not worthy of the title.” 

Yondu groans. Goes limp. Lets Dagada compress his airways until his head rolls heavy as a shotput in a sock. 

Then he twists and drives his good knee up, aiming for Dagada’s groin. Dagada bolts back, wide-eyed – so Yondu turns it into an insole stomp. He smacks Dagada’s forearm on the inside of the elbow, breaking the stranglehold as his hand reflexively opens. 

Dagada don’t think he’s got what it takes to be captain? Well, Yondu’ll show him – preferably from the other side of an airlock door. 

He grins around the bloody metal. Painkillers ain’t too great – the sort that’ll let you dance about like this rarely are. His leg’s on fire and the rest of him’s not faring much better. But Yondu bounces on the balls of his feet, high on adrenaline and pain, and raises his fists in challenge. 

C’mon then. 

Dagada’s growl is – well, milk-curdling, at least. Yondu’s blood’s doing fine, not a clot in sight (he sucks some more out of his lip, just to make sure). Oh, he’s ready for this. Has been for years. Always figured he’d have his arrow by his side when the show finally went down – and that he’d be in possession of a fully-functional set of limbs, and a mouth capable of biting, and all those other little scrapping luxuries you take for granted until you’re without them. But what the heck. 

Wouldn’t be much of a fight otherwise. 

________________________________________ 

The banging has stopped. 

Kraglin dances on the spot a moment, the urge to move forwards momentarily swamped with confusion. “Morlug? You there?” 

There’s a scrape of metal on wire, boot on wall. 

“One of them lil' buggers right over me,” Morlug explains through her teeth. “If I can disarm it…” Kraglin can see her in his mind’s eye – sweaty and pink and frayed around the edges, wedging her feet into the cracks and crevices of the sloped engine deck walls as she prizes at the tiny golden capsule that could be her death. He swallows. Picks up his pace. 

“Be careful,” he tells her, somewhat redundantly. Then, forcing joviality through the wheeze in his breath – “And I’d wager you won’t even need t’do that. I mean, Dagada’s going up against Yondu. You really think that yellow-bellied fry-face is gonna crawl out on top?” 

________________________________________ 

“I will kill you,” Dagada promises. Yondu’s knuckles itch to pulp his stupid yellow nose. Kill him? He can try. 

Dagada’s first to lunge. Yondu sidesteps, neat and fast, forearms up and elbows tucked in. A snappy jab to the chest – Yondu lets it land so that he can retaliate. He relishes the hairline fracture in his ribs with much the same pleasure with which he snaps Dagada’s. 

Dagada reels back. Yondu follows – 

Snikt. 

Something clicks beneath his foot. 

There’s this awful sense of trepidation; kinda like when you’re at the controls of an M-ship and have just realized that you’re supposed to twist the thruster joystick _up_ not _down_ if you want a gradual descent as opposed to an immediate one. If Yondu looks, it’ll make this real. But avoiding problems – even those of the potentially explosive variety – has never done nobody no good. 

He looks. There it is. 

The crimped golden ridge of a detonator, the trigger button flattened under his left heel. 

Yondu compiles a brief list of very choice words to describe himself, Kraglin, Dagada, and the state of the universe in general. Then the bomb goes off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I heard you guys hated cliffhangers, so here~ :3 Please tell me how awful I am in the comments.**
> 
>  
> 
> **((Which is my way of saying 'I'm so sorry, omfg'))**
> 
> **Next chappie on Saturday!**
> 
> ****
> 
>  
> 
> ****


	37. Chapter 37

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Dagada had it coming.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **So close to the end! All we have left is a final chapter and an epilogue. Then I have to get started on the rest of that art.**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **Also, although I've probably said this on half the chapters thus far - _I'm sorry_.**

When the abyss shatters, it shatters in silence.

A torrent of flame gushes from the _Eclector_ ’s starboard bow. Fire in spate, it licks amber and furious for a full second, a single but devastating exothermic throb, before being swallowed by the void. It’s followed by debris. Twisted pipes, bent panels half-melted into waxwork grotesqueries. Scorched flotsam and jetsam, spilt into a bottomless sea. 

Two frigates and a smaller corvette, the current extent of the Ravager fleet, take one look at their galleon’s perforated side and reconvene at a safe distance. On board the corvette, the captain signals a rookie to tentatively take the comm. 

“Uh,” he says, rolling the mic between his sweating palms. “Uh, are y’all… alright?” 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin, in the process of flying backwards, most definitely is not. 

He lands on his ass. Unfortunately, as his ass doesn’t have much in the way of impact conductivity, he’s bowled right over it, boot over head. His face makes a convenient friction brake as he skids into the far wall – along with all three of the too-brave or too-stupid Ravagers who had ignored his order to flee. 

He scrambles upright while they’re shaking the ring from their ears. The iron great-door has dented inwards, but he sees no punctures. There’s smoke though, smoke of the sooty and carcinogenic kind, trickling through the vents. As Kraglin watches a red flash flares across the palm lock – _hull breach detected in engine quarters, area in lockdown_ – and those vents squeak incrementally closed. 

“Morlug!” he screams. 

________________________________________ 

There’s a faraway boom. Like listening to a submarine navigate a minefield from the surface. Dagada’s smile is wild, his laugh moreso. 

“You – I can’t believe, you –“ 

Yondu takes his foot off the detonator. Dispassionately watches the trigger piece click back into place. 

“You blew it up, you set off the bomb – oh, this is priceless, I can’t believe –“ 

Yondu picks up the detonator. Weighs it in his palm. 

“Now the galleon’s crippled and that fool bitch is dead – and doubtless your bitch with her!” Dagada claps his hands, gleeful as a child. “Come now, Udonta. Laugh a little. You’ve certainly never had a problem with that before. What’s wrong? Can’t see the funny side now? Upset because you’ve effectively scuppered your own ship? Nothing left to be captain of –“ 

The detonator smacks him in the face. 

Dagada’s head snaps back, whiplash-fast. Yondu, chest heaving from the force of the throw, stumbles to follows up with a clumsy uppercut, throwing in every pound he has. Dagada jaw cracks. His wail is garbled and senseless as he attempts to press the bone back together, succeeding only in grinding the raw fracture. 

There. Now neither of them can talk. 

________________________________________ 

_Engine quarters are in lockdown._

Kraglin smacks the biolock again. 

_Engine quarters are in lockdown._

Morlug’s not responding. Her name glitters emptily on his commlink holoread. 

_Engine quarters are in lockdown._

The breach has depressurized several compartments. That’s the bonus of space travel – no fire can survive without oxygen to fuel it. But the tunnels in the engine core will have been sealed off by internal blast doors, and there’ll still be a decent-sized fireball razing its way through the corridors closest to the main hold. Closest to Morlug. 

_Engine quarters are in lockdown._

And there’s smoke, and there’s heat and falling masonry, and unless she’d succeeded in disabling it, Morlug had had a bomb right on top of her… 

_Engine quarters are in lockdown._

“Shut up!” Kraglin screams. 

He kicks the bulging steel in his frustration – regrets it when all he receives for his troubles is a hollow clang and a splintered toenail. He needs… he needs… 

He needs an override. 

He needs a captain. 

Kraglin collects himself, the sweat in his clenched fists rubbing to grainy grey larvae. Takes a deep breath. Clicks the dial on his wristpiece away from Morlug’s name, and onto Yondu’s. 

“Boss? You there?” 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin needs a captain? Well, Yondu’d better get promoting himself. 

What with all the blows to the head he’s taken, he’s more than a little wobbly on his feet. But at the end of the day, those headshots might be Dagada’s undoing. Because, when Yondu works his aching chin from side to side, he could swear there’s a little more give in the muzzle than there had been previously. Not enough to whistle through, but… 

“Dyou’re dgonnna regwet dat,” he slurs. Dagada, jumping at the sound of his voice, gapes furiously over the crumpled jut of his jawbone, and lunges. Yondu sidesteps. Lets Dagada ram into the wall, blocks his clumsy retaliatory kick with a braced shin – _ow ow ow_ – and floors him with a headbutt that carves the imprint of the muzzle into both of their faces. 

Dazed, he makes the most of gravity’s downwards pull – which he’s suddenly feeling a lot more than usual – to collapse on Dagada’s stomach and squeeze the air out of him. Dagada’s lungs make the wheeze of cobwebbed organ bellows. Yondu gives himself a second to find his bearings. The pound in his skull soars momentarily higher than the adrenaline rush. As it recedes, Yondu angles his weight more firmly onto Dagada’s belly and fastens his hands under the bobbing apple in his throat. 

Dagada’s got one of those faces that’s more handsome the further away from it you stand. Here, up close, Yondu’s treated to the full ugly spectacle – faint scars from the coolant spill, jaw dangling in a yawn that displays every one of the Xandarian’s woolly teeth. His tongue lolls, a white wet slug. Hands grapple Yondu’s wrists, yellow on blue. But Yondu doesn’t relent. He leans closer, bearing down harder, squashing Dagada’s neck above and his lungs below. 

“Dwho’s laughink dnow?” he growls. Locates the arteries that pulse earwards under Dagada’s disjointed mandible. They’re a visible tic, squirming wormlike beneath the skin. Yondu shifts his hands with a precision that’s as surgical as it’s ruthless, snarling through the bit as Dagada’s cheeks go from yellow to orange. 

A Ravager crashes around the corner. She’s part of the comms crew: overweight, Xandarian-featured, bowed heavily over her knees as she pants her message to the floor – “Sir! Sir, hail from the _Dauntless_. And _Nihilator_. And _Vindice_. They want to know what’s… going… on…” She glances from under her sweat-slicked fringe at Yondu, perched on Dagada’s stomach, hands frozen in the midst of throttling him. “I’ll just, I’ll just go, shall I?” 

Yondu inserts his knee into Dagada’s liver, in case he fancies utilizing the distraction. “Dat’d be besd,” he rasps. 

Dagada’s eyes roll as the Ravager shambles in retreat. His legs spasm: epileptic, desperate. But Yondu hangs on. He’s dead to the blood itching at his wrist from where Dagada’s nails slice in. Dead to the body writhing to dislodge his hips. Dead to everything but the single emotion that’s feeding life to Dagada’s gun-grey eyes – a blank, consumptive fear. 

He releases him. Dagada’s inflamed airways struggle around a gasp. When Yondu drags up Dagada’s skull and smashes it on the decking, once, twice, three times, that fear is petrified forever. 

________________________________________ 

Scrrtch, scrrtch, scrrtch. Scrrtch, scrrtch – 

Clink. 

Yondu drops the detonator, its serrated edge now blunt, into Dagada’s gaping mouth. He peels the muzzle off his face with no little relief. 

“Yondu!” Kraglin’s voice at his wrist. It’s been nagging away for the past five minutes, after Yondu’d bashed Dagada’s head concave – apparently, the idiot hadn’t had as thick a skull as he’d assumed. Yeah, yeah. Kraggles needs the captain’s codes. Yondu’s working on it. But – well, he ain’t giving no orders while he’s got a lump of steel seated on his tongue now, is he? Anyway, those straps were making his ears ache. 

Override authority will transfer automatically to the next-in-line as soon as the wristpiece monitors read the captain as cold. The only crimp in this plan is that next in line’s not Yondu – but he can fix that. 

Rubbing the split corners of his mouth – and praying that there won’t be any mutinies until he can shape a decent whistle – Yondu squats over the corpse (which, in death, has gone an interesting daffodil-grey, those infernal tattoos alone retaining their colour). He lifts Dagada’s floppy wrist, and activates the comm. 

“Hey, Captain Thrabba,” he says sweetly. Puts on his scariest smile. “How’d you like to abdicate?” 

________________________________________ 

He doesn’t know if she can hear him. But he talks to her anyway, as he tucks her burnt head under his chin and her knees over his arm, telling her stupid nonsense: that everything’s fine now, that everything’s gonna be alright. 

He meets Yondu on the ramp to the medbay deck. The captain’s coming the other way. Dagada’d relieved him of his belt while in the brig, so the arrow’s tucked into a loophole on Kraglin’s jacket. Yondu’s face is pulpy around the mouth, but he’s grinning like an idiot – and, when he sees Kraglin, draws him into a one-armed side hug, mindful of his cargo. 

“Guess who just fucked up the chain of command?” is his greeting. “So yeah. M’expecting a few mutinies. But anyone who tries it gets the Dagada treatment.” And he smirks at the watching Ravagers until they remember they’ve got an engine to extinguish. 

Kraglin shrugs him off. Keeps walking. Yondu, falling into step, takes in the stony set of his mouth. “Uh, is she –“ 

“Not yet.” 

There’s a low exhalation, one which could almost be relief. Yondu doesn’t offer to help carry her - Kraglin’s grateful for that, not least because they probably shouldn’t be moving her more than is absolutely necessary, and she’s already been jostled enough. News travels fast onboard and the Ravagers streaming past them, armed with fumigation pumps, fire hoses, and the occasional slopping bucket, pause to goggle at Yondu before tipping their heads respectfully and scurrying away. Yondu seems oblivious. His brace clicks every other pace, and Kraglin can feel that he’s watching him. 

It’s too quiet, without speech. Kraglin’s becoming hyperaware of Morlug’s shuddery breaths. The terror that they might peter out is gnawing away at him from the inside – so he fills the silence in the only way he knows how. 

“I can’t believe he’d actually do this,” he says, low and fierce. Clenches his fists in the sizzled leather of Morlug’s jacket – then hastily loosens the grip when she moans. “I mean, I know he was mouthing off about it… But I just can’t believe Dagada would blow her up.” 

There’s a pause. Yondu’s gait falters – then immediately picks back up. 

“Yeah. He was kinda a crazy guy, huh? Pushing the detonator on his own ship…” 

“You killed him?” Kraglin asks, just to make sure. Squints at Yondu sideways, and is relieved to find a smirk and a nod. Then: “You made it hurt?” 

Yondu’s grin becomes sharp; the strobing bulb overhead glints off capped and bloody teeth as they duck under a low tunnel strut. “Is my ass blue?” Kraglin can’t help but snort, and the grin grows. “And yours, tonight. I got me a cabin to christen.” 

Kraglin could kiss him. Only he’s holding a half-fried Xandarian in his arms, her skin more char than pink. And Yondu’d only punch him if he dared. He settles on a smile, bumping his shoulder off his captain’s broader one. 

“Sir, yes sir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Oh, _Yondu..._**


	38. Chapter 38

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which Kraglin promotes himself.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Last proper chapter, guys! I'll upload the mini-lil' epilogue tomorrow.**
> 
>  
> 
> **...And, as usual, I'm sorry.**
> 
>  
> 
> ****

'Tonight' never happens. Yondu’s busy with captain-y things: an engine compartment blasted to high hell, another leg brace to break in, and the fleet a lightyear from the nearest honest and respectable outlaw repair port. He’s got minions to threaten into submission. Frigates to contact. A quaking Thrabba to be hung, drawn and humiliated, until not even the greenest rookie would consider casting lots in his favor. And Kraglin… Well, Kraglin’s draped over a chair in Doc’s medbay, watching the curtain around the surgical table jiggle with the dicing and slicing of four enthusiastic arms.

A’askvarii-girl plops onto the stool besides him, holding out a bowl of something. Kraglin takes it and eats mechanically, not registering the taste. 

“She’s doing good, all things considering,” A’askvarii says, once his fork’s scraping pewter. Kraglin nods. Waits for elaboration. It comes with a flare of her gill-like nostrils, all in a rush – “Ain’t never gonna hear again though. Or talk. I’m sorry –“ 

“Ain’t me who needs an apology.” Kraglin sighs. Places his bowl on his lap, and stretches his legs. “And not from you.” 

“Hm.” Her tentacles hover uncertainly above his head, like she wants to give him a pat. But she thinks better of it. Ravagers don’t do comforting. So she asks instead, voice harsh to compensate – “S’it true though? About Dagada? Losing it and sticking them bombs in himself?” 

Kragliin shuts his eyes. “Yeah.” 

Her sigh is a stutter. “Shit.” 

“Yeah.” They sit for a moment. Then Kraglin turns to face her – “Hey, I never said thanks. For not leaving me. Back in that tomb –“ 

A’askvarii slaps a tentacle over his mouth. “Shut it! Ravagers don’t go back for folks, y’hear?” 

Kraglin patiently worms the appendage down, ignoring the bitter tang of fish-oil. “You did.” 

“Yeah well…” A’askvarii crosses her Lovecraftian limbs and nods sullenly at the stained and gritty curtain of the operating chamber. “So did Udonta. And you for her. Guess none of us are perfect Ravagers.” 

Rocking the chair onto its hindlegs, Kraglin traces the path of a spacemoth as it flits across the bare solar-light panel. “Guess not,” he says, with a smile. 

________________________________________ 

Kraglin’s passed out in the medbay, Morlug swaddled up like a mummy on the pallet besides. He startles awake at the touch to his shoulder – and finds Figs, glowering down at him, frizzy hair spritzed with static. 

“We need to talk,” she says. 

If that had boded ill last time, it bodes worse now. Kraglin glances around, locating Doc and A’askvarii, asleep in their own cots. A’askvarii’s sprawled out like roadkill and all six of Doc’s limbs are wrapped around his pillow. They’d been working on Morlug half the night, and he figures he owes them their rest. “Can we do it here?” he asks. Nods to the crispy lump on the bed. “M’supposed to be watching her vitals.” 

“Cause you were doing such a great job when you was snoring,” Figs points out. “C’mon. I won’t be a minute.” 

She heads for the doors. Kraglin trails after her, shivering – Yondu’s forgotten to return his jacket, the jackass. He’s all sticky under his thin shirt, sweat dry and itching. Add to that the amount of Morlug’s carbonized leathers that’d peeled off during the rescue, and he’s in dire need of a sluice-down. And one damn uninterrupted night of sleep. Preferably in Yondu’s swanky new captain-sized bed – 

Which is probably what’s crawled up Figs’s ass and died. Kraglin yawns, scratching his stubble. “This about me an’ Yondu?” 

The medbay door whooshes to with its customary ping. Figs doesn’t answer. She turns them onto a dim-lit passage, one of the many which thread the galleon’s epidermis. The pipe-lined enclave darkens as they near the dead end. It’s narrow and derelict, studded on the external flank with poorly-patched hull breaches, scorches from long-cold plasma blasts, and the occasional dusty black yawn of an airlock. 

It’s also… familiar. 

Kraglin hasn’t been here since his first day, when he’d almost strained his eyeballs out their sockets searching for a planet left far behind. It’s eerie, this return. He’s retracing the first steps he took as a rookie – in boots that’re a little more worn around the sole, but no less uncertain. At his side, Figs is a gloomy green ghost. She doesn’t speak. Neither does he, and the silence settles around them as thick as the cold grey dust. 

Shifts are midway. Everyone is where they’re supposed to be. Scrubs have been cancelled in favor of clearing the charbroiled engine rooms, and everyone’s working double-time – which should make Kraglin feel guilty about having spent the last five hours dozing over Morlug’s passed-out body, but what the heck: he’d been instrumental in the evacuation procedure, and he figures he’s saved enough lives to earn a break. 

But as a result, the corridors are deserted. So when Figs grabs him by the bicep and spins him into an open airlock, there’s no one to hear him scream. 

Which he does. More in shock than anything, although it’s tinged with a generous helping of disbelief – 

“Figs! What the fuck?” 

“Ain’t personal,” says Figs. Short and to the point. As ever. For once, Kraglin wishes she’d be more long-winded – if only to give him time to concoct an escape. 

As it is, he can only gabble –“What are you doing? What are you _doing_?” as Figs steps over the rim of the door-seal. He levers himself up, using the porthole for purchase – the porthole which is the only thing between him and a vacuum, the porthole which is going to shunt open the moment she presses that button and blast him out like bad exhaust, _shit, shit, shit_ – and dives for the gap in a burst of adrenaline. 

Good thing about being skinny. He slithers through before the lock can click in. There’s a muffled hiss as the airlock opens behind him. The blood drains from Kraglin’s face in sympathy. Then drains further, as he looks up to find Figs’ plasma pistol leveled at his head. 

“Why can’t you just die?” she asks. Kraglin’s mouth opens and closes. 

“Why are you trying to kill me?” he finally splutters. “We won!” 

“You won,” Figs corrects. Her aim is steady, not a fraction of waver. Silhouetted against the ruddy light, the only touch of color on her is the Merlot-dark coat ribbing that maps out her flat breastbone. Her belt buckle twinkles as she steps forwards, and a dot germinates deep in the plasma pistol’s barrel, a comet hurtling ever-closer. “Udonta’s the captain this fleet needs. But you ain’t a factor in that plan.” Her finger dips inside the trigger-guard. “I can’t let you be.” 

Kraglin is, to his utmost surprise, unafraid. Figs ain’t as deluded as Dagada – or at least, not in the same way. She wants what’s best for the crew, and what’s best for the crew is a captain unaffected by affection. Softness. _Weakness_. If she views Kraglin as Yondu’s weakness, of course she’d want to eradicate the mote before it turns cancerous. 

However, Kraglin ain’t in the mood for dying today. 

“Factor this,” he says, and dives at her legs. 

Figs’ shot goes wild, rebounding off the ceiling. Kraglin yanks her close. He takes a bludgeon of a punch to the stomach but grits through it, chopping his hand on her wrist and shaking it to send the pistol skittering when her fingers flex out in pain. “Yield?” he asks. Steps behind her. One hand rests warningly on the back of her neck. Figs scoffs. Of course not; she’s got the mindset of a pitbull, and she’s gonna keep coming at him until he breaks. And dammit, but Kraglin can’t sleep with one eye open forever. “You’d’ve made a fine first mate,” he tells her, almost with regret. 

She smiles at him. It’s the first time since that night on the satellite, when she’d spun him in a drunken waltz and Varra had fed him shots until he threw up, and he and Yondu had made the greatest mistake of their lives. Or the best decision. Kraglin hasn’t quite worked that one out yet. Her face is stunning, in a skrull-like way. He wishes he could have seen it happy more often. 

Any other Ravager would snap at him. Scrabble for life tooth and nail, until the last link of vertebrae had been twisted from their nape. But Figs just tilts her head forwards. Her hair hangs like frothy seafoam. Beneath his palm, delicate green bones settle and click. “You better look after my crew,” she says. 

Kraglin’s nod is subdued but certain. He completes the promise with “And my captain,” and rips out her spine. 

________________________________________ 

It only feels right to watch Figs vanish, seeing as he’d afforded the same courtesy to Varra. However, the _Eclector_ ’s power core is fritzed and they’re only moving because they’re being sucked towards the event horizon of a neighboring black hole. 

Kraglin winds up staring stupidly at a hovering corpse. Its spine gouges out the back of its neck, a solidified hangman’s rope, and it turns slow cartwheels outside the window like a morbid child. He gives Figs a respectful minute nevertheless – although that’s spent working out where he can wipe luminous green skrull blood off his hands, where it won’t be too traumatizing for the poor greenie who has to clean it. Eventually he gives in and settles on his trousers. Then, after a moment’s thought, slides the shutter on the airlock porthole closed. Don’t want no-one getting an eyeful. 

So, he could have planned disposal a little better. But sue him. He’s tired. 

…And he should probably comm Yondu and explain to him why he just murdered his best candidate for second-in-command. 

It’s a task that should strike fear into the heart of any self-respecting, Centaurian-fearing Ravager. But Kraglin only musters a vague trepidation as he selects the first name on his call-list – “Hey sir.” 

“Whassup?” Yondu sounds out of breath. He’s in the engine block by the amount of scalded, twisted metal crowding the hologram behind him, and there’s sooty warpaint smeared over his nose. Kraglin takes a breath. 

“I mighta just killed Figs.” 

Yondu, distracted with whatever botched relay he’s trying to replace – and he _knows_ he’s shit with repairs, and there ain’t supposed to be that much oil leaking out, not from an electronics circuitboard, and _why_ doesn’t he leave it for someone with the know-how – spares him a crook-browed glance. “You clean up after yourself?” 

Kraglin shrugs. “Yeah.” 

“Logged her name with the quartermaster – shit!” Black gunk spurts over the screen. His face vanishes from sight, visuals shaking as he fumbles to plug the leak – and then returns, dripping and glowering, daring him to comment. Kraglin keeps a straight face. 

“Not yet, sir.” 

“Right.” Yondu spits oil. Rubs a filthy hand across his mouth, which only really adds to the mess. “Go do that then. Then meet me in my cabin. And find me something alcoholic.” 

“Sure, sir.” 

“And tell the quartermaster to update your status to First Mate while you’re at it.” Kraglin’d be lying if he claimed he hadn’t been expecting that, but it still makes his nerves jump and shrivel. 

“You, you really think I can, that I’m ready –“ 

Yondu cuts through his stuttering with a glare. “Kraglin?” 

“Yessir?” 

“That’s an order.” 

And that’s that. 

________________________________________ 

They’re lounging in Yondu’s new bed. Unlike every other cot on the _Eclector_ , the captain’s berth is built for comfort – and for company, should he or she so choose. Kraglin sits with his back to the headboard, one leg crooked at the knee. Yondu’s in a lazy stomach-down sprawl, the only movement the circle of his thumb that scrolls the holochart projected in front of his nose. 

“Whassat?” Kraglin asks, running the back of a nail down the scar. It’s a long silver strip that runs from the base of Yondu’s implant over his nape, then down his spine to kiss his tailbone, the tip of which is usually tucked beneath Yondu’s collar. 

He’s talking about the hologram. But Yondu twists at the hips, onto his side, angling the scar away, before replying – “Fin,” in a rather abrupt tone and pressing something that has little golden fireworks popping across the screen. Kraglin’s hand hovers. Then determinedly resettles across the dimples on Yondu’s lower back. 

“Is it a game?” 

The muscles under his palm relax. 

“Nah. Schematics – for Trezgalar.” 

Kraglin however, tenses like Yondu’s jabbed him with a shockstick. “Trezgalar,” he croaks. “ _The_ Trezgalar.” 

Yondu smirks against the blanket. “The one and only.” 

“The fortress populated by outworld rebels? The one the Nova corps’ve been failing to crack for centuries?” 

“Oh, you know it?” 

There’s a voice in people’s heads that tells them not to do stupid stuff, like jumping out of moving vehicles or zapping a Kronan with a taser. Yondu does not have this voice. Or at least, if he does, he takes great delight in ignoring it. 

Luckily, Kraglin doesn’t have that little voice either. 

“Sounds good, boss,” he says. Snaps open his wristpiece and starts plotting a course.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Just to say - although I'll probably only repeat myself later - it has been such a blast. (Pun fully intended, given recent events on the _Eclector_.)Thank you for the comments, the kudos, everything! You guys have gotten me through what has unquestionably been one of the hardest times of my life. Working on this fic has been so fun and rewarding, and educative too! I honestly can't thank you guys enough. xxx**


	39. Chapter 39

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> **In which there is an ending. Possibly even a happy one.**

The sun is shining. A sun, at least. Which, Kraglin isn’t sure – it’s got a name, but it’s something long-winded and tricky that contains too many consonants, and Yondu laughs at him every time he fluffs pronouncing it.

Captain and First Mate stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the furthest stretch of the satellite’s harbor, watching M-ships skitter across the sky like bluebottles around a dungheap. Daylight streams through the indigo-blue artificial atmosphere and catches Yondu’s implant, splitting to red through the dim crystal. The air tastes clean and rust free. Kraglin, smacking his lips, discovers that he dislikes it. 

Trezgalar smolders above. The ramparts have been cracked like eggshells, the rebels butchered at their stations. Every cubby, every storage locker and docking bay, has been stripped, searched, and stripped again, until only the foundations lay bare. There’s scrap metal to patch the _Eclector’_ s hull, more to flog to the black market. A few thousand units’ worth of goods – cal-cubes and antibiotics and the like. They can keep what they need and sell the surplus once they reach Knowhere. Should easily make enough to cover running costs and losses – and add to that the massive artillery stockpile that’d been moldering in the rebels’ basement… 

M-ships are working through a maladroit battle formation. Galleon’s bustling. Even the engine core's been replaced – courtesy of the mechanics at this station, who have been living under the rebels a short enough time to feel gratitude rather than resentment for the folks who liberated them. Said liberation was completely accidental, given that this satellite’s listed as ‘deserted’ on all official Nova records. But heck, who’re they to turn down a free overhaul? 

Kraglin’s run the calculations. The Ravagers have a fully stocked fleet, enough guns to blast the Horde to smithereens the next time they cross paths, and a whole new frigate to break in. Statistics show: life couldn’t be better. 

Only now things are settling, there’s enough time to think, and there’s enough time to mourn. 

Not that Ravagers do that, of course. But Kraglin, watching Yondu stare at his fleet with that unreadable expression of not-sadness, sticks his hands in his pockets and finds something he’d forgotten about in the chaos of the last couple of days, and gets hit by the sudden impulse to do something nice. 

“Here,” he says, keeping his voice low so the Ravagers assembled around the dock don’t hear – Yondu’s new bridge crew: Isla (whom Yondu has yet to say more to than a barked order, but as she’s alive, Kraglin figures she’s forgiven), Dixie, Horuz, Stinky-foot, Lizard Guy (whose name is Jax, or something of the like) and a heavily-bandaged and uncommunicative Morlug. He holds out the Hrax-marble. It’s cool and smooth against his palm. Not even the sun can bring a glint of color to its drab grey surface, although it’s blazing bright enough to make Kraglin’s ship-accustomed eyes ache. “It was the only one I saved. From her collection, y’know? Now I dunno if you wanna, uh, put it on your console or something –“ 

Yondu gazes at him for an incalculable moment. Then grabs the offering, and lobs it at the M-ships circling high above. Kraglin winces. 

“- Or you could do that. Either way.” 

Yondu shades his sight with the throwing hand, squinting at the bright clouds until the grey speck has hit the peak of its parabola and dropped past the line of the dock. “Thanks,” he says. Kraglin blinks. 

“You’re welcome?” He leaves the question hanging. For once, Yondu delivers – but his answer isn’t especially fulfilling. 

“That felt… good.” He chuckles, still staring at the horizon, although something tells Kraglin his gaze is fixed on no visible point. Perhaps on the galleon, orbiting invisible out past the satellite’s moon. Or elsewhere, buried in the murk of the past. It might have to do with a cage – or a lesson given to two young Ravagers, one yellow and one blue; a lesson imparted and memorized but never quite learnt. When Yondu speaks, it’s rough and raw. “As if I’d want a reminder of that old hag clutterin' up my M-ship.” 

Is he lying? Or is this a residue of that lingering animosity, that relationship soured out of jealousy and paranoia? Whatever the answer, Kraglin’s not going to know until Yondu tells him. And that ain’t likely to occur at any time this century. 

Kraglin sucks on his cheek. He bids Jora a heartfelt good-riddance, and – after a tentative touch unleashes neither the arrow nor Yondu’s scowl – treats his captain’s shoulder to a firm squeeze. 

Yondu says nothing. The gesture isn’t reciprocated, nor is it leaned into. But the captain doesn’t shrug him off. Just stares straight ahead, as if Kraglin’s presence has faded into the static of his mind, while the blunt lines of his profile are softened by the clouds shadowing the sun. Kraglin swallows. Yondu’s never gonna be the easiest to read – however, there’s a niggle in the back of his brain, whispering that this is a moment that the Ravager’s captain might wanna savour alone. Just him, his ghosts, and the endless sky. 

With a final squeeze, Kraglin breaks away and slopes to join the others. He’s halfway there before he hears a quiet exhalation. When he peers over his shoulder, he’s in time to see the tension slip from Yondu’s back. The captain’s head tilts up, implant a glossy carnelian stripe, and he shuts his eyes to let them be baptized by the first dusting drizzle of rain. 

________________________________________ 

**The End.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **I can only hope that you guys have enjoyed reading this as much as I've enjoyed writing it. If you want to find me on tumblr, I'm ask-a-ravager or write-like-an-american (the former blog is a melting pot of Stuff I Like; the latter posts occasional Ravagers-related original content and not much else, and is home to all my filthy fanart). x**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **One little request – could you guys recc this fic, if you enjoyed it? On any platform, anywhere! No worries if you don’t want to/can’t for whatever reason, but if you think it’s worth it, I’d be grateful~**
> 
>  
> 
> ****

**Author's Note:**

> **Will update every two days (or thereabouts)! Please leave comments aplenty, so I don't feel like I'm shouting into a void. x**


End file.
